The Hobbit: A Forgotten Chapter
by CommitmentIssues
Summary: "False-hearted." Elrond turned on the spot. "Do not let good intention fool you, Thorin Oakenshield. The power she possesses has roots darker and deeper than you know." Thorin's voice dropped to a whisper: "What do you mean?" The Elf-lord's eyes were cold, unyielding. "Why don't you ask her who she truly owes her loyalty to?"/Want to know who they're talking about? Give it a read!
1. Introduction

Introduction

* * *

 _This thing all things devours:_

 _Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_

 _Gnaws iron, bites steel;_

 _Grinds hard stones to meal;_

 _Slays king, ruins town,_

 _And beats high mountain down._

It is a sad fact of existing at all: nothing lasts forever. The all-consuming hand of time makes sure of that. In such a circumstance, we are rendered utterly powerless. Our youth wilts, our strength ebbs, and most importantly, our memory fades. I say most importantly because memory is more than just a fond tribute or an exercise in retention. A lost memory is lost experience, lost knowledge, lost life. Why do you think we all fear growing old? Impending wrinkles aside, we also fear losing identity, our realities.

Throughout history we see many confronted with the same issue. We see also that some have taken it upon themselves to _write down_ their memories. Quite a preposterous notion at first, but it has caught on rather well. Now, books are as numerous as the stars in the sky. Pages of knowledge our ancestors have preserved—or at least the knowledge they wanted us to have.

Evidence points to the fact that they did in indeed withhold some pieces of key information. Had they not, the memory of Middle-Earth would surely be fresh in the minds of current generations. Instead it is shelfed like a common fairytale. Someone raised in today's society would perhaps order you a straightjacket if you so much as mentioned Elves or Dwarves or Hobbits in anything more than a whimsical manner.

As it seems, an entire era has been wiped from the pages of history. Somewhere along the twisted and winding line of our past, we have greatly erred. We have allowed a magnificent age to escape our conscious grasp. We have lost perhaps the most glorious, triumphant, defining memory of all. We have done the unthinkable.

We have _forgotten_ Middle-Earth.

* * *

 ** _Hey everyone! I know this is a super short chapter (if you can even call it that) and the next few will be a little slow, but that's gonna be the general pace of my story. I'm saying it's gonna be boring, but there's going to be some large chunks of dialogue and plot. For all you adrenaline junkies, there will be plenty of action as well, but I'll ask you all just to bear with me. This story is precious to me, and I do not wish to rush it._**

 ** _In act, I really haven't. This story really started five years ago in the winter of 2012 when I first went to see The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. I am not exaggerating when I tell you it changed my life. I had never seen any of the Lord of the Rings movies, never read any of J. R. R. Tolkien's books, and I kicked myself repeatedly after that for not having given them a chance. Tolkien is now my hands-down favorite author. I cherish his words like they sustain life, his world like it truly exists._**

 ** _Though I didn't realize it on that cold winter night in 2012, the first inkling, a little stone of an idea had started to roll around in my head. I was thoroughly convinced that it would eventually peter out before I got a chance to really capture it and put it into words, but that little idea just kept rolling and rolling, around and around, all the while growing bigger and faster. Well, now that little stone is a full on avalanche, a story that pretty much wrote itself, hardly worthy of Tolkien, but a story none the less. I can only hope that you like reading it half as much as I have loved writing it._**

 ** _Wow, sorry this was so long! Please enjoy!_**


	2. Prologue: An Unexpected Recollection

Prologue

An Unexpected Recollection

* * *

"Frodo? Frodo, my boy, are you alright?"

Bilbo Baggins gazed at his cousin, the age lines in his face deepening with his concern. Frodo sat next to him, clutching his shoulder. The pain had startled him, gnawing at his flesh with icy teeth. Ever since the Ringwraith had stabbed him with the Morgul blade at Weathertop, the soreness had never completely subsided. In some ways, Frodo felt as if he were still in the clutches of the Nazgul's curse, hanging precariously between worlds. Seeing nothing but darkness, knowing nothing but the call of gold.

Pushing through the shock, Frodo forced his right hand to relax its hold on his shoulder. It slid limply down his arm and came to rest in his lap. He stared at it until he felt Bilbo's stare boring into him. Frodo snapped his head up to meet the old Hobbit's fretfully blue eyes, fixing a faint smile onto his face.

"I'm alright," he said, "Really," but Bilbo raised his eyebrows skeptically.

There was no convincing Mr. Baggins of anything but the truth. He knew exactly what was amiss. Frodo lowered his gaze to the ground, his sigh an admission. The slim trees behind them rustled in a breeze. Their leaves spun and danced while below, Frodo watched their shadowy counterparts play across the Elven stonemasonry. Indeed, such architectural skill as seen in the House of Elrond was unparalleled by any in Middle-Earth. From this particular spot, one could see the hidden sanctuary in its entirety. Hall after gleaming hall displayed a myriad of wonders, each one more splendid than the last. Golden sunlight slanted through glassless windows and soaring arches, splashing onto polished floors, and flitting across vaulted ceilings. The Last Homely House rested, an illusory jewel cradled in the skeletal arms of the Misty Mountains. From the rough granite of the mountains themselves, the Bruinen tumbled like thousands of diamonds, throwing out its misty dappled shawl to fall roaring down the sheer face of the cliff into the valley of Rivendell.

Any other time, Bilbo might have been contemplating the beauty around him whose wonders never ceased and whose splendor eluded his quill. But today his eyes were on Frodo, scrutinizing the young lad he had raised. It seemed years since he had seen him last, on the night he had left his own eleventy-first birthday celebration on a very long holiday. Bilbo searched a face that belonged to a stranger. Frodo was in his early thirties, still very young by Hobbit standards, only just coming into adulthood. Yet the smooth innocent face looked so old and drawn, his clear happy eyes were tired and aged beyond centuries. Bilbo even thought he could see hints of silver in the black hair.

A shadow of anguish fell over the old Hobbit's heart. _My poor, poor boy!_ Bilbo felt despair tugging at the corners of his mouth. _What on earth has happened to you? I can't possibly imagine—_ then, he froze. No. He _could_ imagine. He knew _exactly_ what had befallen this poor wretched soul.

The Ring.

Even as the idea entered his thoughts, Bilbo felt an uncontrollable desire to see it, to possess it, to once more caress its perfect golden curve. He snatched a glance at the chain just visible above the back of Frodo's collar. He felt his hand begin to move of its own accord, reaching toward Frodo's neck. Bilbo pulled it back before the younger Hobbit could see. It shook violently as he dug his fingernails hard into the sweaty palm. He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting the gleaming vision back into the darkest recesses of his mind. He had suddenly been reminded of the way it made him feel. Beyond the joy of calling it his own, he had lived ever in fear. Fear of losing it, or rather, fear that one day it would decide to leave. For years on end it had controlled his thoughts, but it would NOT control him again, not now. He did not understand what power it possessed, but he had given it up long ago, left it behind before…Bilbo exhaled slowly feeling his shoulders sag.

"I'm so sorry, my boy," he murmured finally. "I should never have left you to fend for yourself—and certainly not with that blasted ring. I should have stayed at Bag End, I—I thought it was the end of my problems when I left my old life behind—but it was the beginning of yours, for I left you behind with it."

Frodo remained silent for a while, unable to deny the truth Bilbo spoke. Over the rushing water and the sighing wind, he could hear the distant voices of Merry and Pippin, no doubt getting into some kind of mischief. He envisioned Sam hiding in a bush, admiring the grace of a female Elf as she went about her daily chores. At this, Frodo couldn't help smiling. A thought had suddenly struck him.

"You grew old, Bilbo," he said, turning to look at him. "Years have taxed your strength. It was time to move on, entrust that old life of yours to someone younger and with infinitely more patience for the neighbors. Besides, if you hadn't left Bag End behind, we would both still be there and not together here in this beautiful place."

Bilbo smiled and shook his wizened head with a sigh.

"I can hardly imagine why you would want to be anywhere near me! Trouble follows me wherever I go, and it always seems to find me, no matter where I hide, even in the least likely of places. My own home, for instance. That's where the most perilous trouble found me. Oh dear, what a nasty surprise that was, having thirteen Dwarves appear out of nowhere asking me to be their Burglar! But it was also my greatest adventure." A light touched his eyes. "I have often thought about the peculiarity of it all. The sheer odds of those Dwarves showing up at my door are quite staggering. What a strange work of fate it was, indeed."

"Yes. Fate, and a little shove from Gandalf, no doubt," said Frodo. They both laughed. Bilbo began to flip through the aged pages of the big red leather book he seemed to take with him everywhere. He stopped when he found a remarkably accurate rendering of the Wizard with his crooked nose and mischievously pensive eyes.

"Ah, my dear old friend," he said, looking fondly down at the drawing, "If anyone attracts trouble more than I, it is Gandalf the Grey." He leafed through the pages covered with scribbles and drawings, the memories of his adventures with Thorin Oakenshield and his Dwarf Company on their quest to the Lonely Mountain. It was almost complete. He came to where the writings stopped and held his feather quill poised over the blank page. Then, quite absentmindedly, he began scratching into the yellowed surface, watching as black lines appeared under his practiced strokes. "I only wish he had not brought his troubles to me. Of all the Hobbit holes! Why couldn't he have knocked on the Sackville-Bagginses' door? Goodness knows they deserve it more," he grumbled.

Frodo smiled, genuinely this time.

"Surely you do not wish this fate upon anyone else, Bilbo?"

"Oh, of course not, my boy, just thinking aloud as it were. Though, I would like to have seen your old aunt Lobelia clinging for dear life onto an eagle's back, or exchanging pleasantries with a fire-breathing dragon, or wrestling to the death with a tree from the Old Forest." He chortled to himself at the thought.

Frodo frowned. "The Old Forest? When did you ever go that far south? I thought you cut straight eastward from Hobbiton and stayed north of Bree-Land?"

The laughter in Bilbo's eyes faded. The smile slowly slipped from his face.

"So did I," he said, his voice soft and distant. He sat thinking, the quill in his hand still moving across the page. For a while the only sound was the scratching of its tip against the paper, but the old Hobbit was hardly paying any attention. Frodo watched him uneasily. Maybe he had just made a mistake. Perhaps it was simply his old mind, going with age.

Then again, perhaps not.

Bilbo looked down at the book open in his lap and Frodo did the same. Together, they stared at the page as it fluttered in the wind.

On the paper was the rough outline of an enormous ship, which had not been there a few moments before. It was a majestic vessel with soaring masts and billowing sails. The name " _Evrenos_ " was etched into one side in bold confident black. A massive dragon carved into the prow seemed to snarl out from the page as the craft glided over a swell of churning clouds.

"Bilbo." Frodo's voice was hushed to a near whisper. "What is _that_?"

The old Hobbit stared at the sketch that seemed to have leapt of its own accord out of his subconscious and drawn itself onto the page. Then he slowly lifted his eyes and peered unseeing into the distance, past the marble railing, out into the glittering vale, lost in a forgotten memory that had suddenly surfaced. Finally, he took a deep breath and blinked, but did not meet the lad's eyes.

"My dear Frodo, all that I have told you about my adventures, it is the truth, but not the complete truth. There is a piece to the puzzle, a faded memory—and I now fear I may have to rummage rather deep within to find it—which I have long delayed pulling from the depths of my mind. Perhaps it is because it is a painful memory, or perhaps it could be dangerous. Perhaps it is because it is much safer buried in this musty old attic of mine." Bilbo said this with a small chuckle, but his face quickly sobered and his eyes grew distant again. He continued as if in a trance. "An old friend once told me that some things are better left undisturbed. Some things are better left forgotten…"

Here, his eyes refocused and he seemed to become aware of Frodo looking at him. "And so I thought," he continued, turning at last to face his kinsman, "until now, with dark things moving in the world, and even darker things waking up. Perhaps it is now that we can learn from the past. Perhaps my memory may serve as more than a tale to tell around the fire…"

"Bilbo, what are you talking about?" Of course, Frodo knew very well what "darker things" Bilbo was talking about. Even as he thought of it, he felt the chain around his neck grow heavy, as if he were carrying a mountain on it instead of a little ring. Things were most certainly waking up, but Frodo saw no sense in burdening the old Hobbit's mind any further. He had decided after the Council of Elrond that the Ring's true nature would be something Bilbo never knew. The more he forgot the better.

Mr. Baggins frowned distractedly and then sighed. "My memories hold many things, but most of these have already come to light." He ran a hand over the ship he had drawn. "Ah, perhaps it is not important. Perhaps one day I will tell you."

"Tell me _what_?"

"Nothing imperative, my boy. Nothing too vital. Now, I think we'd better hurry if we're to make it to supper in time," said Bilbo, fixing a smile on his face. It was Frodo's turn to look askance at his companion. But then he smiled too, not wanting to upset the old Hobbit.

They rose from their seats and hastened to the dining pavilion. The setting sun bathed Rivendell in an amber haze as all gathered together for the evening meal. There was much eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and general merriment. Afterward followed the traditional musical exhibition, but tonight, Bilbo did not stand up to sing one of his songs, as had become customary. Instead, he sat quite detached from the rest, barely listening as Elven melodies filled the air with enchantment and magic. After the songs had concluded and they had all wished one other a restful night, the old Hobbit rushed away to his rooms as fast as his ancient feet would carry him. Frodo watched him go, wondering what in Middle-Earth he was up to.

* * *

In his quarters, Bilbo lit the single candle that rested on his desk, placed his red book there, and opened it to the page with the _Evrenos_. Then he hesitated, and without quite knowing why, he ripped out the drawing and closed the book. He put it away and flipped the loose paper over onto the side still free of ink. _This will do better,_ he thought. He stared at it. And stared still longer. In the trembling candlelight, the shadows flickered across the blank void, and it seemed to cry out in a yearning to be filled with letters and shapes. And Bilbo yielded. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to write.

* * *

Frodo wandered leisurely back to his own rooms, his mind reeling with concern for the Hobbit that had raised him. He was torn between genuine worry for the state of Bilbo's mind and the thought that maybe he, Frodo, was just overreacting. _Perhaps it is now that we can learn from the past…_ He sighed and allowed himself a slight smile. One day, he supposed, he would know what the little old Hobbit was all in a fuss about. As it happens, Frodo never did find out, and it wasn't until many years after his passing into the Undying Lands at the end of the Third Age that his most trusted friend Samwise Gamgee found the lost pages of Bilbo's story that are here recounted in _A_ _Forgotten Chapter, by Bilbo Baggins_.

* * *

 _ **Hey again! Don't mind me, I'm just going back through and adding some commentary at the end of each chapter (which this also isn't really one) to clarify and what not. Carry on!**_

 _ **In case you were wondering, this is the point in the Fellowship of the Ring a little while after Frodo reaches Rivendell with Arwen, and before the nine in the fellowship depart for Mordor. The Lord of the Rings story is only just beginning. I will be writing in more prologues such as this one to relate the Hobbit story back to the Lord of the Rings.**_

 _ **Just an aside, the whole idea behind this fanfic is to weave another storyline into the Hobbit, a whole other character, who you will meet soon enough. I wanted to make it such that when you watch the movies, it feels as if the character is there, just out of frame.  
**_


	3. The Round Portal

I

The Round Portal

* * *

Approximately one hundred and thirty leagues to the West, and about sixty years earlier, that very same Bilbo Baggins sat up rather suddenly in bed, blinking sleep and sunlight from his eyes. Smoke curled up from the candle he had left burning all night. It was nothing more than a puddle of soft wax. Faint birdsong drifted in from the window with the lazy hum of bees as they wandered from flower to flower. Outside, the Shire was waking up, coming alive in the dewy calm of the morning.

But Bilbo sat utterly still in his comfortable little Hobbit hole. His heart raced, as his eyes flicked wildly about the bedroom. It was too _quiet_. He lurched out of bed and bolted to the doorway, freezing on the threshold to listen. Where was the yelling and the belching? Where was the laughing and the joking and the stomping? Where was the singing? He stood there a while, staring down the hall, waiting for any sign of them to present itself. Then he shook his head distractedly and took a shaky breath to calm his ragged nerves.

"Just a dream," he insisted to no one in particular. "Just a bad dream."

To be completely sure, he checked every room that comprised Bag End, and despite the unseemly emptiness of the pantry, Mr. Baggins remained stubbornly unconvinced that anyone but himself had been there the previous evening. As he padded down the empty corridors, the utter solitude settled down heavily upon his shoulders, like the calm after a storm. The sound from each careful footfall bounced off the curved walls, and seemed to disturb the lingering residue of whispered conversation and half-remembered voices from the night before. He crept into the parlour, glancing around at the clutter of loose papers, yellowed texts, and depleted candles.

 _Loyalty, honor, a willing heart….._

He halted mid-step, listening.

 _A willing heart…_

Bilbo spun around. His eyes dropped immediately to one parchment in particular folded neatly on the tea table. "Oh, good heavens." He bent and picked it up with shaking hands. It unfolded itself insistently, sprawling its length to the floor. Sure enough, the Contract was here, which had to mean that the ones who had left it were real, which also meant that the events from the previous evening had indeed happened. He followed the prose all the way down to the bottom where the line next to _Burglar_ still awaited his mark. "So it wasn't a dream after all," he sighed.

 _The world is not in your books and maps…_

Bilbo nearly dropped the Contract. He looked around, half-expecting to see Gandalf the Grey waiting there, head stooped and shoulders pressed against the ceiling.

 _It's out_ there _…_

The Hobbit's head turned of its own accord and he found himself squinting against the sunshine that beamed through the window. He also found himself thinking, not as a proper respectable Baggins ought to think, but rather as a Took might think. He found himself wondering about things he had never wondered about before. He stood there in that spot for a considerable while, watching as the sun burned away the morning mists to reveal the distant horizon. He had seen that same horizon every time he looked out that window, and for years and years it had never changed. But today it seemed different, unfamiliar and so very far away. He blinked and looked down at the Contract still in his hands, then back outside, then back at the Contract. His gaze went from the Contract and travelled over the maps he had been collecting from a very young age. Maps he had spent hours and hours poring over, never once imagining he would ever walk those borders so neatly labeled or see those sights that were just names on the paper. Again, his eyes were drawn to the window. What lies beyond that horizon? What exactly is _out there_? Hadn't he ever wondered? His feet began to move, carrying him across the silent room to his cluttered desk where a quill pen waited. He picked it out of the inkwell, hardly believing what he was about to do.

Mr. Baggins had written his name a thousand times. Even as a very little Hobbit it had always come easily to him. It was inscribed on the inside covers of all his books and scribbled at the corners of all his maps. The purpose of his label on something had always been to bind it to him. This, however, was different. This creased and tattered piece of parchment had the capacity to bind _him_ to someone else. He suddenly forgot quite how to write it out properly, but his feather quill seemed to know what to do. The tip scratched as his name scrawled itself across the line.

 _Can you promise that I will come back?_

He stared at the bottom of the Contract. _Bilbo Baggins_. He couldn't help thinking how much power those two little words held. There was no return from this. He was the Burglar now. And he found it curious to note that he wasn't bothered in the slightest by the finality in this thought. Something changed in him at that moment, as if there was a candle in his chest, much like the ones that were scattered all around his house, and someone had just set it alight, a tiny wavering flame in a world of contented darkness.

 _No…_

The Burglar tucked the signed Contract into his vest pocket and turned towards the round green door that stood between him and the rest of the world. The flame began to grow and grow until it was a blaze, filling him with fierce burning excitement. He set his hand on the shiny brass knob in the middle, turned it slowly.

 _And if you_ do _…_

The portal swung open and he stood on the brink. It was going to be a beautiful day. He felt a pull, faint but insistent, from deep within his stomach.

 _You will not be the same…_

Hardly pausing to gather his things, Bilbo Baggins turned his back on Bag End and all the comforts of his old life, stepping over the threshold out into the sweet unknown. He fixed his eyes on the horizon and the world that spread itself before his feet.

 _I'm going on an adventure._

* * *

 _ **Is Bilbo schizophrenic? What?**_

 _ **For all of you Hobbit movie buffs out there, I used several lines from An Unexpected Journey to explore Bilbo's thoughts in the aftermath of the shindig the Dwarves threw in his little hole in the ground. I wanted to interject bits of his memory from what he said and might have heard that night**_ _ **.**_

 _ **Hope to see you next time!**_


	4. How Deep the Scars

II

How Deep the Scars

* * *

He staggers through the churning dust. His numb fingers grip his bloodstained sword in white-knuckled tension. The jagged edge of the wooden bough, too heavy for him to lift anymore, scrapes and bounces hollowly against the earth. But it isn't earth, is it?

 _Don't look down_ , he tells himself.

The air is thick with the smell of blood and decay. The smell of death. He chokes on it as he wades on through the ruins at his feet.

 _Don't look down._

But he wants to. He wants to see who has not survived the red chaos. Who he will have to mourn in his heart for the years to come. Who will never see the golden light of another sunrise.

 _Don't look down._

His boot snags on something and he stumbles. He catches himself on his timber shield, but it is too late.

He is looking down.

And he finds his nose inches away from the breastplate of a fallen warrior. The metal is dented and ripped, the fine golden inlay spattered with scarlet. Dread tightens its cold hand around his throat. Only the King's bloodline wear gold into battle. Hardly daring to breath, he lets his eyes travel upwards along a seam of broken chainmail until they find the face.

His brother was always the better looking of the two of them, taking more after their mother. He has her auburn hair, her gentle brown eyes. They stare unseeing at the sky. The clouds churn with colors of rust and flame, like the heart of an uncut ruby. They are drunk on a fiery spirit.

As he watches, the pallid skin suddenly turns stone grey. Tiny cracks radiate out like chiseled wrinkles from the youthful eyes. His little brother's face ages a hundred years in a matter of heartbeats and begins to crumble, falling away in streams of fine dust. Within a few more heartbeats, the body is nothing more than a pile of ashes.

 _I promised to keep him safe._

With a hoarse sob he shoves hard against the hollow piece of tree limb, restoring himself back to his feet. He keeps his chin lifted up towards the bloodshot heavens, his eyes closed. Somewhere in the distance he hears a desperate wailing as someone finds a familiar face in the wasteland of broken bodies. He opens his eyes, stares straight ahead.

 _Don't look down._

He begins to walk again, one step at a time. Then he hears a grating shriek behind him and turns, but there is nothing. _They're dead. We killed all of them._ He turns back and takes another step forward. The tip of his sword hits something with a muted _clang_ and he feels it roll into his path. It is there, right between his feet.

 _Don't. Look. Down._

But his neck begins to bend, bringing his face down, down, down. He catches a glimpse of matted white hair before he squeezes his eyes shut again. He feels hot tears burning trails of fire through the filth on his cheeks. A gasp escapes his lips as his chest shudders and convulses. He doesn't want to look. Not anymore.

Suddenly he is just a child again. His only worries are the state of his toys and his father's approval. Why should he care whose head this is at his feet? It isn't his fault they have all died. He hears another screech, closer this time, somewhere to his left.

He clenches his jaw so tight that his teeth shatter, raining from his mouth in jagged shards and rattling to the ground.

But it is his fault. Every death, every single soul. He feels himself drowning in their blood. He can taste it in his mouth. It tastes like metal. It is all his fault, and that's why he must open his eyes now. Because maybe the pain won't be so hard to bear if he can just look it in the face and give it a name.

So he opens his eyes. And his legs disintegrate beneath him like old stones. And he stares unblinking into his grandfather's steely blue eyes. And he picks up the head and cradles the face in his arms. And he closes the eyes with trembling fingers so the King's soul can be at peace. He lifts his gaze to the mounds of corpses, to find that they aren't made of corpses anymore, but gleaming blood-soaked gold. They tower up to the crimson clouds above. He stares until his eyes are dry and cracking and feels himself choking on death once again, on the stench of metal and decay. But he doesn't dare cry again. He doesn't deserve it. He looked pain in the face and its name is guilt.

Another terrible shriek just behind him. He doesn't care.

He looks back down at the old gray face.

And the sunken, dead eyes open wide and look back at him. The mouth opens too, a gaping black hole. And he stares at it, paralyzed.

Then the head screams.

 _"_ _Orcs!"_

* * *

Thorin lurched back into reality, his eyes snapping open. The first thing he saw was the absurd little Hobbit, his distraught features aglow with the light from their cooking fire. For one so light on his feet, Master Baggins seemed to have considerable difficulty in knowing when was the right time to keep one's voice low.

"Orcs?!" He had said it none too quietly not a moment before. It was his voice, Thorin realized, he had heard in his sleep. The Dwarf exhaled a breath he didn't notice he had been holding and felt his racing heart begin to slow.

"Throat-cutters." That was Fíli's voice. Thorin turned and saw his nephew next to the fire, his brother Kíli sprawled out nearby, carving himself a wooden pipe. "There'll be dozens of them out there," he continued with a shrug. Firelight slid up and down his golden mane and the beads at the ends of his mustache flashed and winked. "The lone-lands are crawling with them."

Kíli leaned forward, his own un-plaited sable hair falling into his eyes. "They strike in the wee small hours when everyone's asleep," he said in hushed tones, as if the Orcs might hear. "Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood."

The Hobbit's eyes looked as though they might pop right out of his head. They darted frantically about as he turned to and fro in an agitated manner. _He has good reason to be afraid_ , thought Thorin. He looked over in time to see his nephews exchange a secretive glance over the fire followed by a soft laudatory chuckle. Anger flared in Thorin's belly, spreading through his limbs like wildfire. He had raised them better than this.

"You think that's _funny_?" He stood up stiffly. "You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?"

They both had the good sense to look ashamed. "We didn't mean anything by it," muttered Kíli.

"No you didn't," Thorin shot back as he strode away. "You know _nothing_ of the world."

He paced fuming all the way to the edge of the little cliff on which they had made camp for the night. He stood there scanning the darkness below, listening for the terrible sounds that always found their way into his dreams. An eventide breeze wandered up through the shadowy canyon to kiss his face. He let it cool his heated, raving thoughts. Behind him, he could hear Balin reassuring the young lads, trying to explain away Thorin's ill temper by entering into an account of the struggle for the Mines of Moria, another forsaken kingdom of the Dwarves, which King Thrór had led a desperate attempt to reclaim.

The day the dragon came and took Erebor was a terrible one, and Thorin would forever suffer with the weight of its memory, but nothing could ever compare to the devastation and waste of life he had witnessed on the fields before the Gates of Moria.

They called it the Battle of Azanulbizar and its horrors still haunted Thorin every night, even one hundred and forty-two years later. In his dreams he saw his little brother Frerin, who had died of an Orc cutlass through the chest, their father Thráin, who had disappeared in the dusty aftermath, the severed head of his grandfather, King Thrór, and, most terribly, the disfigured face of his grandfather's murderer, the Pale Orc whom they called Azog the Defiler. The sight of all those bodies, and the sounds of those who mourned them, far transcended the power of words. Ever since that ghastly, unspeakable day, Thorin had never dared let one single tear betray him or the things that crept into his mind to harrow his waking thoughts.

A tremor ran up Thorin's back. He did not care to hear Balin's tale. It was one he knew far too well. A tale he relived every time he closed his eyes.

Sometimes, though, he dreamt of better things. Sometimes he saw his mother. He saw her smiling face, her gentle brown eyes. He saw her as he remembered her, sitting by the light of a great green stone hearth, her fingers trailing deftly over the golden strings of an elegant harp. She had taught him to play not long before her death. Sometimes he could hear her humming, feel her soft touch calming him from that night's visit to the ruins of Azanulbizar. Then he would wake and she would be gone.

Sometimes he dreamt of his sister, Dís. She and Frerin had their mother's brown eyes, her comely features. Thorin, meanwhile, had inherited his grandfather's flinty blue eyes instead, and Thráin's raven-black hair. Dís, the only living remnant of his mother, was far away in the Blue Mountains awaiting their return.

Thorin had fostered her two sons from a very young age, ever since their father had departed to walk the gilded halls of Dwarves long past. Thorin never had a child of his own, and felt in his heart that he never would. This meant Fíli was the king's heir—when the king was a king again, and should Thorin not survive the journey to their homeland, he would bear the responsibility of rebuilding their kingdom. Regardless of how it happened, one day Fíli would wear the crown of Erebor and sit upon the carven throne beneath the light of the Arkenstone, just like his great-grandfather, and every proud Dwarf in the long line of kings since Durin the Deathless. And Kíli, well, he was now of age to learn a trade back in the Blue Mountains, and set to become a prince one day. And if his brother did not beget sons, then he too would be in line for the crown.

Thorin lifted his head to search the distant cliff that rose on the other side of the little canyon. _They must_ prove _to me that they are ready_. Both had been trained in the arts of war and had demonstrated superior skill, but they were no warriors. They had not yet seen the ravages of battle, nor been faced with the burden of taking a life. Some days Thorin was unsure whether they had ever truly grown up. He still caught glimpses of wide-eyed little children in them at such times as these when they dared to speak of things they had not yet had the misfortune of knowing. They were still soft, as soft as their new Burglar of whom the Wizard spoke so highly. That all would change, though, with the first enemy they encountered, be it Orcs or Elves or any one of a variety of other scum that prowled the earth. No one was ever quite the same after first blood.

Suddenly, out of the trees Thorin thought he saw something stirring. He blinked and narrowed his eyes, looking deep into the shadows of the distant forest. Yes, there were definitely things in the darkness, lean shapes with restless movements. He saw a flash of hungry yellow eyes, and the glint of metal as it caught the pale light of the moon. _Orcs_. That's what they were hearing. Thorin lifted his hand and rested it on the hilt of his sword Deathless, absently rubbing the angular pommel. _We are being followed_.

"And I thought to myself then," he heard Balin's voice as if from a distance, breaking into his wandering thoughts. "There is one I could follow. There is one I could call King." _Some king I am to be when I cannot even handle the demons within,_ Thorin thought. _I fear I will never be deserving of the crown._

He turned to say as much only to find that his entire Company was awake, and standing, and looking at him. Depending on him. Humbled, Thorin inclined his head and walked slowly back toward the fire. _Though I bear all the shame of exile, still they look to me_ , he thought. Such faith took him by surprise, filling him with a strength he did not know he could muster. If it was a leader they wanted, a leader they would have.

 _I will not fail them. Not again._

* * *

Long after everyone had gone back to sleep, Fíli's cheeks still burned from the tongue-lashing he had received from his uncle. He remained on watch with his brother as the night hours slipped by. He gazed up at the stars flickering and winking above, picking out the constellations his mother had shown him. Up there, the legends were real, every star told a story, each one a rare glimmering gem set into the dark blue velvet of midnight.

 _You know nothing of the world_.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. Thorin's words had cut deeper than he realized. As soon as he had stalked away, Fíli had taken a long pull on his pipe, exhaling hurriedly to hide his shame in a veil of smoke. He still felt like a child when his uncle looked at him sometimes, just a child with eyes wide and turned up to the stars.

Fíli opened his eyes and stared into the fire. It burned low, cracking and popping from time to time as the embers settled in showers of sparks. But he wasn't a child anymore. Why couldn't Thorin see that? And why couldn't he see the need for a little light-hearted bantering in such sobering circumstances? Fíli lifted his gaze to his brother. He watched him as he whittled away at his pipe, blowing wood shavings out of the designs cut into the stem. Fíli knew his brother better than anyone, even their mother. He took note of the way Kíli's knife scraped over the wood a little too forcefully, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching. _He is afraid._ He turned his eyes back to the glowing cinders. _But he would never admit it_. Couldn't Thorin feel the tension? Couldn't he see what a desperately futile quest this was?

A stiff breeze came whisking through the surrounding trees and the fire flared with unexpected light. The hairs on the back of Fíli's neck stood on end and he gave a shudder that had nothing to do with the sudden chill in the air. Somewhere, just above the whispering of the wind, he heard a distant mournful howling like a lonely death knell. One look at his brother told him he too had heard it. He was scanning the trees, clutching his knife tightly in one hand, the unfinished pipe completely forgotten in the other.

"I wouldn't worry," said Fíli, trying to sound confident. "It's far away from here, whatever it is." But his brother just kept on looking deep into the murky foliage. "Kíli, there's nothing to see out there. Kíli? Did you hear what I—"

Suddenly Kíli's eyes widened and he stood up in a flurry of wood shavings, pointing with his knife into the darkness. "There!"

Fíli squinted, trying to see past the fire's glow. "There _what?_ "

"I thought I saw something just there." He wiggled the knife at some obscure point amongst the trees.

"But _what_ did you see?"

Kíli turned to him with a worried expression. "I—I thought I saw a pair of eyes."

Fíli opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, he heard the snapping of branches in a nearby tree. Now he was on his feet too, staring into the night. He turned to see Kíli reaching for his bow. Fíli stayed his hand.

"Wait. There's nothing there."

Kíli glanced into the trees and then back at him. "You heard it, though, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not everything that goes bump in the night is an Orc."

"But the eyes, I saw—"

"Kíli, you're wound up too tight. The shadows are playing tricks on you. It was probably just an owl, nothing more." Of course, Fíli thought it had been much more than that, but he wasn't about to say it. Kíli dropped his hand from his bow and ran it through his hair as he sat down. Fíli settled himself back in his spot by the fire, watching his brother. He looked ruffled, disquieted as he stared at the ground. Still just a child. Fíli reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. Kíli blinked and flicked his eyes up to his older brother, his face still tilted downward.

Fíli offered him a smile he hoped was reassuring.

"I'm scared too," he whispered. His brother smiled weakly back.

* * *

 _ **Thorin Oakenshield is one of the main reasons why I decided to write this story, and more specifically the way in which Richard Armitage brings this character to life. He is absolutely captivating on screen. Thorin is also becoming quite a challenge because there's so much of himself that he doesn't show, so there is less for me to work with that he puts out there, and more that he keeps behind a wall, which I can only guess at.**_

 _ **He has so much to carry on his shoulders: the expectations of his people, the responsibility of becoming king, losing almost all of his family, being in exile, and the emotional scars from the things he has seen. How can a single soul bear all of that and go on functioning? I intend to find out...and just wait til he meets my OC!**_

 ** _More of that next time!_**


	5. Strange and Stranger

III

Strange and Stranger

* * *

The road was a weary drag of hours for Bilbo, and despite all his new companions, he felt utterly alone. A mound of extra cloaks and blankets was arranged uncomfortably beneath him so that he could reach his pony's reigns. Her name was Myrtle. She loved eating apples and slapping Bilbo in the face with her mane. The Dwarves were in a constant state of droning chatter that was entirely due to nerves and completely devoid of any significance. Every now and again someone would burst out in song—usually Bofur—and the rest would join in cacophonic discord. All except Thorin, who kept his pony all the way at the front of their little procession, looking about with watchful, suspicious eyes. His nephews brought up the rear, each seeming intent on shoving the other off his mount. Gandalf stayed close to Bilbo most of the time, but the graceful strides of his chestnut mare were too long for Myrtle's quick little legs to match, and the Wizard inevitably ended up much farther ahead.

The only thing Mr. Baggins seemed to be able to think about was the growing distance between himself and the warm, cozy Hobbit-hole he had left behind. _A fine thing this_ , he thought to himself, _when we're not fifty miles from Bag End and I'm already regretting coming on this journey_. And his estimation was remarkably accurate, for at that moment the Company was just coming upon the bridge that spanned the Brandywine river, which marks the Easternmost border of Halfling lands, about fifty miles from Hobbiton.

They were leaving the Shire.

Bilbo's heart fluttered about in his chest like a bird in its cage. He had never travelled so far in all his life, and yet their journey hadn't even begun. It suddenly became very real to him just how vast was the distance they had to cover. And beyond this river was where it would start. Beyond this river lay strange lands with even stranger inhabitants, and all of them very frightening.

As they crossed over the bridge, the Dwarves seemed to get a similar sense of foreboding, and they all fell into a sudden silence. Lush green slopes soon turned to scraggly shrubs and coarse grass. They were passing cottages and farms with increasing frequency, and more and more Bilbo began to notice just how many of the Big Folk there were that lived out here, and just how conspicuous their band of thirteen Dwarves, and Wizard and a Hobbit must appear. Far too conspicuous for Thorin, it appeared. He was in the lead still, conversing tensely with Gandalf. Bilbo watched them go back and forth for a while, trying to ignore the curious stares coming from dark windows and open doorways, until Thorin finally nodded agreement to something the Wizard had said and allowed him to take the lead.

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the Company turned abruptly off the road and onto a trail overrun with weeds. Up ahead, Bilbo saw that it led into a twisted leafy expanse of trees. He had studied his maps well enough to guess that this was the Old Forest, quite the source of legends and stories for the Shire-folk. He shivered to think whether any of those old wives' tales were true, like the crazy little man who lived deep in the heart of the forest, or the trees that came to life and devoured unsuspecting travelers. His heart began to pound again as they passed under the eaves and into a world of shifting green and yellow light. It was hard enough for Bilbo to lead his pony around the knotty roots of the trees, but soon it started to rain and all the Hobbit could do was pray that Myrtle was paying more attention to the path than he was.

"'Ere, Mr. Gandalf," called Dori through his sodden beard, "can't you do something about this deluge?"

"It is _raining_ , Master Dwarf," The Wizard called back, "and it will continue to rain until the rain is _done_." Bilbo couldn't help but smile at his bluntness. "If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard."

 _Another Wizard_ , thought Bilbo.

"Are there any?" He was so tired and miserable, that he was eager for any sort of diversion from this tedious, mucky plodding.

"Any what?"

"Other Wizards."

"There are five of us." _Good gracious. Isn't one enough?_ "The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two Blue Wizards— you know, I've quite forgotten their names."

"And who is the fifth?" _Or have you forgotten him too?_

"Well, that would be Radagast, the Brown."

"Is he a great Wizard or is he—more like you?"

 _That's the same sort of mouthing off that got you here in the first place_ , he told himself as Gandalf continued on in his own defense. They trudged deeper into the forest for nearly an hour, the footfalls from the ponies muffled by the soggy moss that clung to—well, just about everything.

They halted at last in a small clearing littered with dead leaves. On the far edge, a massive willow slouched forlornly, as its drooping branches swept at the ground.

Bilbo heard a soft nervous whicker and turned to see Gandalf's mare pacing toward him, tossing her head and flashing the whites of her eyes. The Wizard was glancing about with a troubled expression on his face.

"I sense a great deal of unrest in these trees," he muttered to no one in particular. "Something has disturbed their age-old sleep."

"Mr. Gandalf," called Dori, looking just as edgy as the horse. "Er, why are we here?"

"Because this is where I have brought us to, Master Dwarf," he said, his eyes still flicking from tree to tree. "Thorin and I have, quite remarkably, reached an agreement on something." He stopped his searching and turned to face the Company, his hand tight around his staff. "We are drawing far too much attention to ourselves, as I feared, and we haven't yet reached Bree. For the time being, I think, the East Road is off limits."

"What do you plan for us to do?" asked Thorin.

"For you? To remain here."

"You—you want us to—stay here?" Bilbo could hardly get the question out. He was beginning to notice a faint creaking amongst the trees, as if they were talking to one another. The Wizard didn't answer, just wheeled his horse around back towards the path they had come by.

"I will ride into Bree," he told them in a voice that would suffer no argument. "We must be completely sure that the road is safe before we continue. I should be back before nightfall." He urged his mare onto the trail, and fourteen bewildered pairs of eyes followed after him. "No fires until dark," he called over his shoulder, "and for heaven's sake, keep out of sight!" He disappeared with the swish of a tail.

Everyone turned expectantly to Thorin who somehow still managed to look unruffled. "I suggest you all take some rest," was all he said, dismounting with a crunch of leaves. The rest followed suit and began unpacking their sleeping rolls and some dried food. Bilbo slid thankfully, but none too gracefully, off his pony, took her by the bridle, and led her over to the willow where he secured her reigns. She nosed at his pockets, looking for apples, but he just chuckled and pushed her gently away. He pulled a blanket down from her saddle, picked a spot between the twisted roots of the tree and eased himself down to the ground. The moss he found to be pleasantly soft, providing a welcome cushion for his aching backside, and soon he was fighting weariness as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier…

* * *

He is back in the Shire, back in the place he left far behind. The first thing he hears is the music, sprightly, carefree, and very familiar. A smile creeps across his lips. He knows what that music means. There is a celebration underway.

He opens his eyes to find that he is standing beneath the big Party Tree, decorated with all manner of lights and streamers. The smells of food and drink waft into his nose on a warm summer breeze, beautiful, wonderful smells that make his mouth begin to water. All around, throngs of Hobbits are spinning and dancing, clapping and laughing. A feeling of sheer joy and peace floods his heart, and for a moment, he believes it is all real. This is where he belongs. This is where he was always meant to be. This is where he wishes he could stay forever.

The sky suddenly kindles with an intense pale light that turns night to day. A deafening crackle erupts overhead and he looks up to see showers of sparkling brilliance exploding across the indigo vault to cheers and applause from the Hobbits below. His smile only widens. The Wizard is here too, and he has brought his fireworks. This must be a celebration of special significance.

Something catches his eye and he lowers his gaze to a gigantic banner that has been erected between to posts. It is so tall, in fact, that it nearly brushes the lowermost leaves of the Party Tree. And carefully printed across the banner's length are the words _Happy Birthday, Bilbo Baggins_.

He frowns. It is not his birthday. The music and sounds of merrymaking suddenly stop and he looks down to see that all the Hobbits are now seated and looking intently at him. Do they expect him to say something? He tries looking to each of them for some sort of explanation, picking out many familiar faces. But something is not quite right. They all look so— _old_. And there are other faces, younger faces, which he does not recognize. He raises a hand to his face and sees the network of wrinkles and age spots that covers the back. He lowers it to see the crowd still staring at him. There must be at least half the Shire here. His hand instinctively buries itself in his vest-pocket, and his fingertips brush up against something. It is cold and smooth and perfectly round. _What have I got in my pocket?_ he wonders, overwhelmed with confusion. Before he gets a chance to take it out, a massive groaning sound fills the air. Behind the throng of Hobbits, the Party Tree suddenly stirs, rearing itself slowly out of the ground on broad, creaking roots, and spraying dirt everywhere. The scene erupts into chaos as it lashes out with its branches, grabbing at the fleeing Hobbits below like they are little dolls. He sees it coming towards him, but just can't seem to move. He only watches helplessly as the Party Tree wraps its rough, spindly fingers around him like a vice.

* * *

Bilbo opened his eyes, to the golden light of sunset streaming through the trees. The only sound he could hear was the wild throbbing of his pulse in his ears. He took a deep breath, wondering how in the world he could have dreamt up something so strange. But then he froze. His eyes widened. The relentless pressure around his chest hadn't gone with the dream. It felt as if the Party Tree was still crushing him. He looked down to see a knobby root from the bent old willow slowly creeping its way around his midsection for a third time, pulling him down beneath the tree. When he tried to struggle, it only tightened its hold.

"H-help!" he managed to get out before it squeezed all the air out of him. Luckily, the Dwarves heard and began to stir. Thorin was the first to see his predicament, leaping to his feet with a startled yell and reaching for his sword. In the blink of an eye, he and Dwalin were at his side, hacking bits of root away. But the tree only extended more roots to wrap around Bilbo's frame, and thrashed about with its whip-like branches, landing several stinging blows on its assailants before they retreated. By now, everyone was fully awake and standing, but none of them could get close enough to help him. Bilbo was just thinking one last time how he would never again see Bag End when a blinding white flash streaked across his darkening vision and burned the image of twisting, coiled tree limbs into the backs of his eyelids. The crushing grip broke and he lay gasping gratefully at the evening air as the sky turned a deep orange through the fluttering leaves.

"You're lucky the Wizard's come back, Master Baggins," spat Thorin, rubbing at a welt across the front his neck. "I can't turn away for one minute without you getting yourself killed." Bilbo lifted his head sluggishly, fighting against the black spots that danced in front of his eyes. The Dwarves were looking about, but no Wizard had appeared of yet.

"Gandalf?" said Ori, peering down the path.

 _Your Wizard is not here._ It was like someone had opened Bilbo's mind and put in a thought that wasn't his own. It resounded powerfully and unexpectedly through his head and made it feel like his skull was about to split apart. All the others had heard—or _thought_ —it too. They were looking wildly about or rubbing their foreheads or clamping their hands over their ears.

Then, from high above in the tree canopy came the sound of snapping twigs. A dark figure suddenly dropped into sight, landing on the branch of a tall elm and raining bits of bark down on the Company. Bilbo scrambled to his feet and squinted up at the obscure shape. It wore a black cloak and hood, its face completely hidden. In its hand Bilbo saw a fearsome long sword, shadowy and grim. The dying light seared up along one wicked black edge like a line of fire.

"Who are you?" Thorin demanded.

It inclined its head as if considering whether or not to answer. _One who would serve you in your pursuit for what once was_. Now Thorin looked ruffled.

"How do you know of the quest?" His voice dropped to a despondent whisper.

 _Your reputation precedes you, B_ _ult-Murkh_. Quick as a shadow, it slid off the tree limb and tumbled to the ground, rolling smoothly into a crouch. It straightened slowly and faced them so that the fading sunlight slanted out from behind it in beams of golden-red. Then, it lifted the sword and stabbed the point into the ground. A ring of shadow pulsated from the site of contact. It shot out, raising itself into a dark barrier, and Bilbo didn't realize until too late that it was not slowing down. It slammed into him like a wall of ice, then he was weightless, flying, as it hurled him back through the air with incredible force. And then he hit the ground. Hard. Completely disoriented, Bilbo turned his head to the left to see the paralyzing wall of shadow had pulled to a stop, and found the rest of the Company on the ground having suffered a similar experience.

All except Thorin, who still stood at the center of the pulsing barrier, facing the dark stranger. It tilted its head to one side and regarded him quizzically. _Interesting_. The word pealed through their thoughts.

Then in one fluid movement, the stranger pulled the dismal blade from the dirt and swung it around, a lethal, flashing arc. The sound of ringing metal shuddered through the still air as Thorin threw Deathless up just in time to block the savage blow. Almost immediately it thrust at him again from another angle, then another, and then another, almost like it had four swords instead of just one. Stroke after stroke fell, thick as rain, and Thorin had no time to think. The stranger beat him backwards all the way to the edge of the barrier before the Dwarf regained his senses and began to retaliate, pulling from all his years of training and experience, feeling the sword meld with his hand as it had done countless times before. Thorin had two advantages, his size and his strength, and he exercised them both as best he could, sweeping Deathless down in a series of bone-jarring blows that would have broken even the most seasoned warrior. But the stranger didn't so much as flinch, deflecting and diverting the force from each blow as if it were brushing away a bothersome fly. Its sword seemed to drink in the sparks that flew when the two blades kissed, the stygian metal flickering malignantly against the lighter steel of Deathless.

Outside the barrier, Kíli watched in horrified fascination as the two combatants whirled and clashed, locked in a deadly, mesmerizing dance as the light turned a dusky red. All around him, the rest of the Dwarves were frantically trying to get through the wall of shadow, banging at it with steel, stone, and whatever else was near at hand, but to no avail. Nothing could break through. He turned and ran around the perimeter to where he had left his weapons. In but a moment he had his bow raised and drawn, squinting down the length of a yellow-fletched arrow. He tried to slow his breathing, concentrating on the tautness of the string. He knew this very well might not work since no one else was having any success, but his uncle was in danger and he had to try all the same. Through the barrier, Thorin and the stranger battled on, and Kíli waited patiently in a tense calm for a clean shot to present itself. And when it finally did, he exhaled slowly, relaxed his hold on the bowstring and let fly. With a soft, low _thum_ , the shaft was gone, right through the barrier, and all the Dwarves stopped and watched its journey toward its mark. The sound of sword against sword stopped suddenly as well.

In the center of the barrier, Thorin and the stranger both stood staring at the arrow sprouting from its left shoulder. The point had gone all the way through to the front. Kíli suddenly realized he had no air in his chest and inhaled his relief with a soft hiss. Then, something happened that no one expected. The stranger took the arrowhead in its right hand and pulled the shaft all the way through without so much as a grunt of pain. It swiveled its head round and peered straight at Kíli from under the hood.

 _It is hardly honorable to shoot someone while their back is turned_. The pulsing barrier suddenly flung itself outward another ten paces, and buffeted them all back again. When he looked, the two in the middle had resumed their struggle. The stranger went relentlessly on with unnatural speed and unfaltering strength, but Kíli could tell that Thorin was beginning to tire. Then at last, with a sound that rang with finality, Deathless went soaring through the air to bury itself halfway into the earth and Thorin lay on his back at the mercy of the hooded victor. It stood with its back to the Company, but Kíli could see clearly enough as it lifted the dark sword in both hands and brought it down with devastating force.

"NO!" He screamed, pushing himself to his feet. He couldn't believe what his eyes had just witnessed, _wouldn't_ believe it. The stranger stepped back and knelt. Kíli threw himself against the shadowy barrier again and again, until he noticed that the figure on the ground was still moving.

Thorin lay gasping for air, staring at the shadowy blade that quivered not two inches from his neck. Then he was on his feet, pulling the sword free and pointing it at the stranger's bowed head. Blood seeped through the hole the arrow had made in the cloak, causing the black fabric around it to glisten.

"Why have you come?" Thorin asked, trying to steady his breathing.

 _I said I was here to serve you._ The voice echoed with a touch of irritation at having to repeat itself. _I would offer you my sword,_ _but you already have it._ Thorin put the blade in question to one side of the hood around where the neck would be.

"And what's to stop me from taking your life with it right now?" The head lifted slightly. He could feel its piercing stare from within the shadows.

 _Because I did not take yours._

Thorin's jaw twitched with barely controlled rage. This intruder would dare attack him unawares and then impose the rules of a fair fight on his conscience. He moved the sword, sliding the tip beneath the edge of the hood and deftly flicking it back from the stranger's face.

Outside the barrier, Kíli could see only the top of a dark-haired head and the look of shock that crossed Thorin's face. Then a loud blast sounded behind them and the barrier dissipated. With another bang, a streak of light rippled through the air and hit the stranger in the back. It crumpled to the ground, shrouded in its black cloak. Thorin stood still as stone, gaping at the prone form before his feet. Kíli spun around to see Gandalf beside his mare, staff upraised.

"You _fools!_ " He strode furiously towards Thorin. "I can't leave you alone for half a day without you getting yourselves into trouble." They all followed him tentatively to the center of the clearing. Kíli could see the sword up close now, gripped tightly in Thorin's hand. It was of a very modest design with a straight blade of dark metal that tapered to a deadly point and a two-handed grip wrapped in black leather. It had but one noticeable embellishment. The black pommel was wrought in the shape of a closed fist. Despite its simplicity, there was something altogether unsettling about it. But no one was looking at the sword. All eyes were fixed in stunned awe on the prone form of the stranger.

"Did you kill it?" asked Dwalin.

Gandalf shook his head no. "Just stunned for a time."

" _That_ is what defeated you, Thorin?" said Nori incredulously. Thorin gave him a look that would have turned a rock to dust.

"What _is_ it?" asked Ori. They all stared a little longer, some glancing up at the Wizard for an explanation, but he just frowned in confusion.

Finally, Bifur spoke up. " _Khuzdin_ ," he said in almost reverent tones.

"He's right," said Bofur, "it's a lass, a Dwarf-maid."

And indeed, there was no denying that the stranger's face was feminine, even in the gloom of nightfall. She was very small, like the Hobbit, her frame almost lost beneath the volumes of her cloak. How could such a pretty little thing have possibly prevailed against someone as strong and skilled as Thorin for even a minute, Kíli thought, let alone defeat him?

"You're joking, right?" Nori was looking at Bofur like he had gone mad. "That is _not_ a Dwarf." Everyone turned and stared at him, too numb and confused from what had just transpired to bother.

"And what has convinced you on the contrary?" asked Gandalf.

Nori gestured to the unconscious form at their feet as if it was obvious.

"It hasn't even got _beard!_ "

* * *

 _ **YAY! Here's some action for ya! And my OC has finally arrived!**_ _ **She really gave Thorin a run for his money, but I think you'll learn to like her anyway.**_

 _ **I noticed that neither the movie nor the book really elaborates on what happened between the Company leaving the Shire and reaching the Trollshaws. If you look at a map, there is actually a lot of heavily populated distance between those two points.**_ _ **I always wondered how they got past Bree. Did they go right through? Did they find a way around?**_ _ **Well, I've decided to fill in the blanks.**_

 _ **In addition, I've always loved the Old Forest, sort of a smaller, less dangerous version of Fangorn and I wanted to put it in my story since it never made it into any of the films.**_

 _ **Also, if you didn't pick up on it, Bilbo's dream is a scene from The Fellowship of the Ring. It is Bilbo's 111st birthday party, sort of a foreshadowing, premonition thing. I don't know I just threw it in there.**_

 _ **Finally, for any of you who are wondering, Bult-Murkh (pronouced BOOLT-MOORKH) means "Oakenshield," and Khuzdin (pronounced KHOOZ-deen) means "Dwarf-woman" in Neo-Khuzdûl.**_

 _ **Sorry that was also long, but please take a moment to review! I'd love to know what you're thinking!**_


	6. A Shadow of Yore

IV. A Shadow of Yore

* * *

The sun had long since sunk below the horizon, but the Company was very much awake. Óin had started a fire and Bombur had made a stew of dried vegetables and some onions they had found growing nearby. With a roaring blaze and warm food in their bellies, the Dwarves would have been in a boisterous mood on any other night. As it was, they never raised their voices above hushed whispers. The tension in the air was taught as a bowstring. As everyone finished eating, Bilbo saw them exchanging furtive glances with one another, some resentful, others a bit frightened, but all very suspicious, for Dwarves do not lightly give their trust to anyone. Gandalf lit his pipe and settled in more comfortably as the rest began to fall unexpectedly silent, all their thoughts on the same thing. And at the moment she was quite preoccupied, sitting bent over a bowl filled with her fourth helping of Bombur's soup. Earlier, after they had argued for a while and finally came to the decision that the stranger was indeed a female Dwarf, the Wizard had insisted that they keep her close for the time until they knew her motives. Bilbo thought this was only partly true, though he couldn't think at all why Gandalf would want to show their attacker an ounce of hospitality.

The Dwarf-maid froze rather suddenly, mid-chew. Her eyes, sleepy and strikingly green, flicked up to see them looking at her with unmasked curiosity. She grinned a small humorless grin and set the bowl aside.

"I suppose you are all wondering who this outsider is come into your midst." Her voice was low and dangerous, Bilbo thought, and pleasant, much more pleasant since it was coming from her mouth, rather than reverberating around the inside of his skull.

"Something along those lines, yes," said Balin tightly. "You may start by telling us your name as you already seem to know of ours." The grin turned to a grimace and the Dwarf-maid lowered her hooded gaze to the glowing embers.

"I cannot."

"You cannot," Kíli said distrustfully, "or you will not?" She fixed him with a flinty stare and he wilted. It seemed the stray arrow would not be easily forgiven.

"I _cannot_ ," she repeated evenly.

Dori threw up his hands in exasperation. "Well why in Durin's name not?"

She said nothing at first, sitting utterly still for so long Bilbo thought she had been turned to stone by the question. Then, she blinked once and knit her brow, puzzled. She took a breath and hesitated, as if searching for the right words. Then she sighed in resignation.

"I don't have one."

There followed a silence fraught with incredulity, in which everyone once again stared at her. Even Gandalf, Bilbo noticed, seemed quite taken aback, his eyes searching for any form of clarification. But none came. Finally, Mr. Baggins could not contain his eagerness any longer and the Took inside got the better of him.

"Beg your pardon?" The words slipped unbidden from his tongue.

For a moment, he didn't even realize he had spoken. Then the stranger turned and bent her hooded gaze on him with such surprising intensity as to make him feel adequately unnerved. Though it was not a hostile look, it had a mesmerizing severity that radiated to his very core. He felt naked and vulnerable under such scrutiny, as if she were analyzing his soul thread by thread. Then, Gandalf said "Bilbo!" in the tone one would use with a naughty child, and he felt the disapproving stare of the Wizard upon him.

Poor Bilbo ducked his head and took up a sudden interest in the ground.

"You've strayed rather far from your hole in the ground, have you not, _mimakhun_?" The Dwarf-maid was still looking him over.

"Do you mean to say," said Nori, getting back to the matter at hand, "that you have no name _at all_?"

"That is precisely what I mean to say."

"Not even an _inner name_?"

"I'm afraid not." She somehow managed to interject patience into her words without changing her low tone of voice or compromising its deadly sweetness.

"Durin's beard!" He turned his head slightly and shot her a disdainful sidelong look. Dori gave him a good smack upside the head. "Keep a civil tongue in that mouth of yours or I'll cut it out!"

"Just a moment," said Dwalin. "No inner name means no identity or honor. You might as well not exist!" This was true, for all Dwarves, though scattered to every corner of the map, are united by a single, closely guarded tongue, Khuzdûl, which reflects the rich untarnished tradition and the many overlooked intricacies of their hidden culture. A culture as strong and deep as the roots of the oldest mountain. A culture very much set in stone. Khuzdûl defines the very inherent and obdurate fiber from which every Dwarf is made. Inner names, which Dwalin seemed so worried about, were things that not even one's family knew and yet supplied each Dwarf with a sense of identity and pride, a knowledge of who he or she _really_ was.

"Yes, I know." The stranger's face was thoughtful, as if the notion of a name had just occurred to her, but seemed otherwise unconcerned that her very existence had just been called to question. "Pity isn't it? I suppose I am nothing but a nobody."

"That doesn't seem to trouble you very much," grunted Glóin, who was a very proud and honorable Dwarf indeed. The newcomer shrugged.

"It doesn't. I was never given a name and until just a moment ago, I have never needed one. Anyway, I am not under the impression that I even deserve one."

"Rubbish," Óin insisted. "Even the lowliest of scum, even Goblins and Orcs—why, even Smaug himself deserves a name!"

"Aye," said Balin with a nod. "It is the first dignity we are given at birth and the legacy we leave behind when we die."

When the newcomer turned to him, her eyes were sad. "Not for me. I have neither dignity to wear nor legacy to leave, and as I have already said, I am hardly worthy of such."

There was a hint of concern on Gandalf's face as he took a pensive draw from his pipe. Bilbo turned to Balin as the rest of the Dwarves began to mutter incredulously amongst themselves.

"What does 'mimakhun' mean?"

"Sorry?"

"She called me 'mimakhun'. What does it mean?"

"It means 'naughty little runt who sticks his nose into other people's business'." He chuckled at the look on Bilbo's face. "Really, Master Baggins! You'll do well not to believe everything you're told. You can believe, however, that 'mimakhun' means 'small one' in Khuzdûl. It is our preferred word for 'Halfling'."

Bilbo nodded and turned to look again at the stranger. His nose twitched indignantly as he wondered what she was doing calling him small. She was only a little taller than he was. She could have been a Hobbit were it not for her rounded ears. Besides, she looked nothing like a Dwarf at all with her wiry build and rather delicate features, not to mention the egregious lack of a beard. In fact, she appeared almost fragile, as if one good blow would break her right in two. And yet, the more Bilbo looked at her face, the more he began to see the rigidity in the hard line of the jaw and the prideful arch of the brow that were characteristic of most all stone-dwellers. As the light from the dying flames played across her skin, he saw it was laced with silver scars. No, she most definitely was not frail, Bilbo decided, thinking of the way she had wielded her sword against Thorin, nor was she a stranger to battle. She was quiet and nameless, weathered by steel and blood. There was still something about her that was just out of his reach. Something very old and very frightening. And though she showed no signs of age or silver hairs, her eyes held wisdom and ancient sorrow both in their emerald depths.

And now they were fixed on him.

He quickly averted his stare, feeling very much like a naughty little runt who sticks his nose into other people's business. The Dwarves were getting noisy now, as their impatience boiled over.

"You lie," Thorin spoke for the first time since she had offered him her sword, his words fringed with ice. They all fell silent and turned to look at him as he raised his face to the light. "You have a name, don't you? Yet you keep it from us at your own expense. What in all of Middle-Earth have you done to condemn yourself to such length?"

Again, the Dwarf-maid went still. And they waited for an answer. And all sat in silence, wondering. Bilbo folded his hands uncomfortably as the smoky air grew heavy. Finally, she stirred, lifting her face to the stars that winked and glimmered above. She closed her eyes and a wind like a cold hand whispered through the trees. The glowing remnants of their little fire flared momentarily brighter and then guttered low. Gandalf frowned and wrapped his fingers around his knobby staff. After a time, Glóin bent and added more dead branches to the fire so that soon the flames were once again blazing and crackling. The stranger tilted her head back down towards the warmth and peered into the wavering light. Her sleepy eyes flickered with ghostly shadow, and for a moment, Bilbo saw in them a dark, indescribable agony. She blinked and it was gone. Once again she looked around at the Dwarves who still waited in an uncharacteristic hush.

"Let me tell you a story." Bilbo waited for protests, but none came. The Company exchanged some confused looks, but miraculously held their silence. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, surveying her expectant audience.

"What have you been told of the first Dwarves to walk this earth?"

"You mean Durin and the rest of them?" asked Fíli.

Without warning, the fire flashed and erupted in a frenzy of sparks, twisting like a funnel up into the night as if caught in the middle of a frightful gale. Bilbo yelped in shock. Thorin's hand flew to the hilt of his sword as the rest of the Dwarves shifted uneasily. The Dwarf-maid grinned maliciously, eyes gleaming.

"Aye," she said. "Durin the Deathless and his brothers six, each with his own wife, each the Father of his own line." The channel of fire branched into seven separate tongues which took on remotely Dwarflike shapes as they licked at the cool air. All the Dwarves—except Thorin, who crossed his arms impassively—looked about somewhat recovered, nervously murmuring their agreement. Most of them were descended, if not directly, in some way, from Durin Father of the Long-beards, and took great pride in the prowess running through their blood.

"Just a moment," said Balin frowning. "Only six there were that had wives. Durin was alone."

The Dwarf-maid cocked her head at him. "Then where did all his children come from, I wonder?"

"Well, they sprang from the rock of the mountain where he awoke, or so the legend goes. They say Durin never took a wife, that his heart belonged to his mountain."

"And that"—her eyes flashed eerily—"is where history departs from actuality." She turned her gaze back to the fire.

"Durin had a wife. Of this I am certain, though, not in the beginning. When he first woke from his slumbers in Mount Gundabad, he found himself utterly alone." The seven columns merged back into one. They all stared in wonder as the fire changed with her words, like she was flipping through the pages of a story book.

"He saw that his brothers had wives, for they had been laid in pairs before the Awakening of the Elves. He despaired at his solitude, and prayed to the Great Mahal, the Ainur of Craft and creator of the stone-dwellers, to send him a wife. But his pleas were seemingly in vain." The Dwarf-shaped flame crouched into a low burning blaze, taking on a defeated air.

"Drowning in his own loneliness and misery, Durin cut a portion of rock from the center of his mountain and fashioned himself a maiden of stone." The Dwarven shape stood and raised his arm. It his hand was a fiery hammer and he brought it down on a patch of smoke in a shower of sparks. Shreds of the smoke broke away and dissolved into the air, leaving behind the swirling shape of a Dwarf-maid.

"So you see," she purred, turning to Balin, "within every legend is a seed of truth, for Durin loved this wife of his own making, this wife made from the heart-stone of his mountain." The flame shaped like Durin knelt in front of his hazy grey statue.

"But stone is stone, and nothing more, and so Durin fell once again into despair, until one day, a stranger arrived on his doorstep, one who wore a black cloak and a hood that covered his face." A shadow, like the shard of a starless night sky detached itself from the darkness, assuming the outline of an old, stooped figure.

"Durin welcomed him, brought him into the mountain, and sat him by the fire, for visitors were rare commodities in those times. The stranger said he came as one who had heard Durin's prayers."

"Mahal," said Óin, nodding knowingly. But the Dwarf-maid gave no sign of confirmation. A flicker of something Bilbo couldn't identify darkened her heavy-lidded eyes as they dropped to the ground.

"He said he could give the Dwarf-Father what he desired, but in return, one of Durin's line would belong to him. He readily gave his word to this covenant, clutching at the opportunity to break his crushing solitude. The stranger touched the carven maid," she continued, as the shadow-figure reached out a hand to the smoke sculpture.

"He breathed life into the cold stone until it was flesh and blood and bone." A tiny flame caught in the center of the Dwarf-maid and spread, burning away the smoke until she was a living flame like Durin. The two embraced and became one.

"The stranger was true to his promise," the Dwarf-maid went on, "and so Durin's line flourished, for many hundreds of peaceful and prosperous years. They went from Mount Gundabad, to Azanulbizar, and finally found a home in Erebor." The shadow disappeared as the fire roared and teemed with a new vitality. Looking harder, Bilbo could see that each little dancing tongue had a unique shape and character about it. One was a strong young Dwarf hammering away at something on his anvil. Another took the form of an ancient Dwarf-father, bent with age, inspecting a fiery jewel. Yet another one appeared to be a lovely girl, spinning round and round, her skirts flaring out in sparks of yellow. Staring into the fire was like catching a glimpse within a vibrant, breathing kingdom. "Erebor," someone murmured wistfully. Then, the flames suddenly lost their vigor and Bilbo realized he had been gradually leaning forward. He straightened his back and turned his gaze to the Dwarf-maid.

In the abrupt dimness her eyes were once again glowing with that ancient emerald grief, as if she feared to say what came next in the story. She began to speak again, slowly. "This age of bliss, however, was not to last, for the time drew near when the line of Durin would fulfill the promise which its forefather had sworn. One fateful day, somewhere inside the Lonely Mountain, a child was born in their midst, a child with a terrible curse." At the center of the fire a black stain appeared.

"One of shadow and death, a plague upon the Dwarves of Erebor. Or so they thought, for they did not understand, and so were afraid." The flames shrunk and drew away from the growing shadow in the center.

"They locked the child away, within the gloomy deep of the Mountain." The flames suddenly rose up and descended upon the shadow, shrouding it in light, but succeeded in neither hiding it nor burning it out of existence.

"And the child passed out of memory and into myth. Forgotten, but still very real."

" _Askadel_."

All eyes turned to Thorin in astounded silence. He kept his face down, so that half of it was cloaked in darkness, but he stared up through his lashes as realization dawned on him, his rigid blue gaze bent on the Dwarf-maid. "The Shadow of Erebor." She stared steadily back at him, looking almost gratified. Then she gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Oh nonsense!" cried Balin. "Askadel is nothing but a legend, a story made up to get little ones to behave."

"A legend, yes," she said with a smile, "and the seed of truth sits before you. I am that cursed child. I am Askadel."

"And if this is true," said Balin, only half-convinced, "if we are the ones who kept you imprisoned, what are you going to do now? Are you going to kill us?"

"If I sought to do that, you would have been dead two days ago. No, I am simply answering your question. You asked me for my name, but you already knew it. All I had to do was call it to memory."

"That's it then?" asked Bilbo. "That's your name? Askadel?" He wondered why she couldn't have just come out and said it in the first place.

"Askadel is a name of fear, _mimakhun_ , the one which the Dwarves of Erebor gave to the Curse, but not to the child who bore it. The fact still remains that I don't have a name." The Dwarves once again began to grumble.

"Well," said Gandalf raising his voice over the discontentment. "It seems to me there is no point in laboring the issue further as it will only serve to get us all flustered and frustrated!" He said this sounding a great deal flustered and frustrated himself, but his words succeeded in quieting everyone down, though they continued to shoot wary glances in the stranger's direction. "I suppose," he continued, "the only remedy to this situation, that is the only thing we can do besides quibbling endlessly like a flock of mother hens, is to come up with a name for our guest. There is no sense in going about life without proper designation and identification. And if she is to help us on this journey, we will have to call her _something_." The Wizard's gruff, long-winded words swirled lazily around his head, mingling with the pipe-smoke that hung in the air. Gandalf smiled winningly, looking rather pleased with himself. The Dwarf-maid smiled back. "Your kindness is admirable, Tharkûn."

"I _never_ said she could join this Company," Thorin growled. "First the Hobbit and now this—this sorceress. You heard it from her own mouth. She is _cursed_. Do you intend to pick up every sorry stranger we find along the way?" Bilbo cringed at the way he'd said "Hobbit" like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes they had to tote around with them.

"It seems to me that _she_ is the one who found _you_ ," the Wizard replied sternly.

"Gandalf's right," said Bofur. He eyed the Dwarf-maid dubiously. "Go on then, where were you before you found us?"

"I came from the Barrow-downs, just East of here."

"Durin's beard! What were you doing there?"

She looked at him as if the answer was quite obvious. "Talking with the dead. They can tell you quite a lot, if you are willing to listen. They spoke of strange forces awakening. A change in the balance. They had heard whispers of an exile making the long journey home." Her eyes turned to Thorin. "Well, there's only one exile I know of that lives this far West."

"You see, Thorin?" said Gandalf. "She only wants to help us. You cannot deny she would be a very useful addition. And despite this Curse, I sense in her a resolve to do good, a will to be renewed." Thorin's icy blue eyes flickered with cold rage, but he held is silence, lowering his gaze to the ground.

" _Nurêadi_."

They all turned and looked at Bifur who was staring disconnectedly into space, as if in a trance.

"What did he say?" Ori inquired.

Bifur repeated himself, more slowly. " _NOO-ray-AH-dee_."

" _She who is made new_." The Dwarf-maid was smiling at Bifur.

"I think that will do wonderfully for an inner name," said Gandalf. "Of course, we would be breaking tradition a bit as you all would know what it is."

"It matters not to me," said the Dwarf-maid, a little breathless, "that is, if the more rigid minds are willing to overlook it." Her eyes flitted over to Balin and Glóin and Dwalin, settling last on Thorin who did not look up, just moved his eyes to the fire.

"So be it," Balin declared with a wary nod, his eyes sparkling with a new respect, "on one condition; that you also be given an outer name. I'll not have anyone outside this circle knowing your true identity." The Dwarves glanced around uncertainly, but Bilbo was already thinking. He felt a special connection to this newcomer, as they were both outsiders, and without quite knowing why, he was willing to put his full trust in her, even if the Dwarves weren't.

"What about—Ridda?" he said hesitantly. They looked up at him in surprise and then turned their gazes to the Dwarf-maid, but she was looking only at Bilbo.

"Ridda," she whispered, tasting the word. "It's perfect. Thank you, _mimakhun_." Then she smiled at him. The pain was still there in her eyes, but it was now mingled with joy and a strange relief, as if she had not been happy for a very long time.

The Wizard smiled in satisfaction. "Well, I suppose I should congratulate you, Ridda, and officially welcome you to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield."

The tension in the air suddenly seemed to lessen and it became a little easier to breathe. The Dwarves seemed to warm to her a bit and even exchanged a few weak smiles. Then, Fíli lifted his water skin. "To Ridda," he said.

"To Ridda!" the rest repeated and raised an assortment of drinking vessels to their lips. Ridda lifted the bowl of soup she had set aside and nodded her thanks.

She risked a subtle glance in Thorin's direction, but he was not drinking, just went on glaring into the fire. There he had seen his beloved kingdom come briefly to life before his very eyes, and discovered the dark secret the Mountain had harbored in her depths for so very long.

* * *

 _ **First of all, I'm really sorry this chapter is so long, but buckle up cuz there's more like these to come!**_

 _ **This chapter is actually one of the first things that I wrote and then I adjusted accordingly once I had the other parts of the story around it. It is very much a chapter of first impressions and I think there's a lot of pressure on it. I had to decide in this chapter who I wanted Ridda to be, the ideas and symbols I wanted her to embody, how everyone would receive her. This is the chapter where I myself really discovered who this character was that I had created, which sounds weird, but she really did take on a life of her own throughout the whole process.**_

 _ **Second, Ridda's full name is pronounced: noo-ray-AH-dee, as Bifur so kindly (and somewhat sassily) sounded out for us. I got it by combining the words nur (meaning "new") and dhi (meaning "she" or "her").**_

 _ **Third, Tharkûn (pronounced THAR-koon) means "Gandalf" and Askadel (pronounced AS-kuh-dell) means "shadow of shadows". Mimakhun ("little one") is pronounced MEE-muh-khoon. (I'm using a great site called DwarrowScholar for these)**_

 _ **Also, I had a lot of fun figuring out which Dwarf would say what and injecting a little humor in there. (**_ _ **I do believe I made it so that every Dwarf in the Company gets at least one line—besides Bombur, who just grunts and eats…)**_

 _ **I'd love to hear your thoughts! Don't pass up the chance to review if you have a moment!**_


	7. Burden or Blessing?

V

Burden or Blessing?

* * *

"Couldn't sleep, _mimakhun_?"

Bilbo whipped around thinking he was getting rather tired of being caught unawares and scared out of his wits.

After their little council around the fire had concluded, everyone had settled in to sleep away the dregs of the night. Bilbo tried to do the same, but every time he closed his eyes he felt the steady, crushing embrace of the willow's roots closing around his chest again. Sick with restlessness and nerves, Bilbo had decided to try and walk some of the tension out of his legs. He made the mistake of assuming he was alone until a voice cut suddenly into his thoughts and set his heart pounding all over again. Now he was peering somewhat doubtfully around in the darkness for the source.

He didn't see her at first, not until she lifted her face to look at him. She was wrapped in her black cloak, half hidden in the shadow of an old elm, her body completely still, her eyes ablaze and searching.

"N-no, I couldn't," he stuttered back, "I—one of the trees tried to—eat me before you came, so I doubt I will get much of any sleep until we leave this forest." She showed no intimation of surprise. She didn't even blink.

"I know," she said in that soft, dangerous voice.

Bilbo straightened, his supposition confirmed. "That was you then? The white light?" Her nod was almost imperceptible.

"What about you?" He wasn't quite sure why he was concerning himself with her affairs. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"No. I do not need sleep. I do not tire in the same way you do."

"But I mean, you made quite an entrance earlier." Her eyes flicked up to bore into his. _Stop_ , he told himself, _just keep quiet_. But still the Took in him plowed on ahead: "Even got yourself shot with an arrow."

Then, she was on her feet, stalking soundlessly toward him. With the poised grace of her movements, her green eyes, and long smoky grey tunic, Bilbo was reminded of the dark tom cat that used to prowl around outside the door of Bag End when he was young. He retreated frantically, raising his hands, a stammered apology rising to his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the glow from the cooking fire, but it was too far away for him to risk flight. That option was eliminated altogether when his foot caught on a root and sent him backward to the ground.

"Ridda, I—"

A smile suddenly dawned across her face, and she began to laugh. It would be a lie to say that Bilbo did not feel a great deal of relief in that moment.

"You _are_ a jumpy one, aren't you?" Fiery green mischief danced about in her eyes as she bent down, still chortling like a bird. The long dark braid slipped from behind her shoulder, nearly whipping him in the eyes. She gripped one his upraised arms with a surprisingly strong and callused hand, and hauled his stiff weight upright. Then, she reached up with her left hand and pulled down the collar of her tunic so he could see her shoulder. There was no sign that an arrow had gone through at all, except for a small silver scar that shone in the glow from the distant fire, much like the other ones he had noticed before.

"Well, that's—brilliant!" he blurted, not knowing quite what to say.

"No." The smile was gone. "No it's not." She pulled the collar back up. "It's frightening."

"Is that part of the Curse as well?" She nodded again. How bad could it _really_ be, he thought, to heal so quickly or have such intrinsic skills in battle? He knew they would have served him well on such a journey as this. But one look at her face told him she did not see it that way at all. He recognized once again that deep green sorrow in her eyes as they seemed to glow in the pale moonbeams that filtered down through the black leaves.

When she turned and moved back to her place against the elm, Bilbo followed her, finding a spot between the roots. He sighed as he eased himself down, trying to ignore the part of him that screamed in protest at getting anywhere near another tree. She set her gaze on him in an entrancing sidelong look from the shadows, and again he got the sense that she was seeing much more than just his face and his unkempt hair and his over-sized feet. He shivered involuntarily under her probing stare. She noticed and turned her head to view him full on.

"You fear me." It wasn't a question, nor was there any hint of surprise in the low, velvety-smooth intonation. Bilbo didn't respond, suspecting the answer was already written across his face. "But there's something more." Her brow creased slightly in concentration. Her eyes narrowed and then widened.

"Envy?"

Now she was surprised. Bilbo dropped his eyes, ashamed, not because she had divined his deepest thoughts, but that he himself had not yet mustered the nerve to confront them.

" _Mimakhun_ —"

"My name is Bilbo." He lifted his head and looked her brazenly in the eye. Suddenly he didn't want to be anywhere near her, anywhere near this forest or the Dwarves, or the Wizard, or this whole impractical, mindless adventure. He just wanted to go home. "I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and I don't belong here." The floodgates had opened and it all came surging out. "I'm a Hobbit, a Halfling, a _small one_. We aren't immortalized in legend and lore. We don't make weapons or wear armor, or march into battle, and we most _certainly_ don't run off on adventures with complete strangers who can speak to the dead and read minds—"

He froze, fearing he really had gone too far this time. But when he looked up, she was smiling again, her teeth flashing dimly from the shadows. Then she leaned forward, her eyes sincere.

"It does not matter the size of a person," she murmured, "but the greatness in his heart and the strength of his courage." The words washed over him, leaving a gentle swell of reassurance in their wake, and he felt his temper begin to cool.

Subdued and somewhat humbled, Bilbo offered her a weak smile and shook his head. "I'm afraid I haven't much of that. Courage, I mean."

She leaned back against the trunk of the elm tree. "You had enough to sit down," she said, gesturing towards its roots, and renewing the possibility in Bilbo's mind of them suddenly springing into motion, eager to strangle the life out of him.

He circumvented his discomfort by putting on a façade of indifference, allowing a yawn that had been struggling to the surface to escape, while keeping one eye furtively on the roots. "Well, it wasn't easy." In fact, he was still struggling against the frantic voice that yelled at him to run.

"You had enough to trust me."

He looked back to see that her eyes were fixed somewhat wistfully on something else. He followed her gaze through the murky, drooping undergrowth to the distant pool of light from the fire where the rest of the Company was haphazardly strewn in peaceful slumbers or keeping watch next to the flickering glow. _She wants to belong just as much as I do_ , he realized suddenly, _and she's just as far away from achieving it as I._

A hand settled lightly on his shoulder. It was cold. It was very cold. He could feel the chill bleeding through jacket, waistcoat, and tunic alike, numbing his skin like frost and setting a deep ache in his bones. He turned to meet the sleepy, piercing eyes. The icy touch disappeared and he nearly lost himself in the hypnotic green profundity.

"Go, take your rest, _mimakhun_." Despite her proximity, Bilbo felt wave of eerie calm settle in his chest, making his eyelids droop against his will. "Dream a lovely dream for me and I will make sure nothing brings you to harm."

Bilbo barely made it to his bedroll before succumbing to the inarguable, merciful embrace of sleep.

* * *

Well into the night, Thorin kept vigil by the fire, staring into the ever-dimming light as the untended cinders burned the remainder of their life away. He searched those variegated, wavering depths, but their previous vigor and magic had fled. He sat, lost in pondering thought, barely heeding the chorus of snores that rose up in a discordant symphony around him.

Then he heard something that shattered his meditative barrier, a sound that made his breath catch in his throat. It was laughter, high, beautiful and melodious, like the chime of a cool spring breeze or the soft murmur of a clear stream over stones. He turned and squinted into the gloomy forest, barely making out the shapes of the Dwarf-maid and the Hobbit, the former helping the latter to his feet with no small amount of amusement. Through the muffling leaves, he could hear the distant exchange of tentative, but amiable conversation. He stared at them, the outsider and the interloper, driven together by mutual estrangement. _At least they have each other_ , he thought as they disappeared into the shadow-shrouded forest. Even as the thought entered his mind, he felt a crushing solitude settle its frightening weight upon his shoulders.

 _I have no one._

And it was true. There was no one he could talk to about the scars, the ruthless nightmares. Not Balin, not his sister or his nephews. No one.

But in those flames, he had seen what once was, before all the blood and the fire and the pain. He turned his eyes again to the guttering embers. In those flames he had seen Thrór's kingdom, _his_ kingdom, and Durin's people in their time of splendor.

"It's a curious thing." Thorin forced himself to remain still as every muscle in his body tensed at the voice. Gandalf the Grey sat down next to him and glanced into the fading glow. "The fire, I mean. How something so powerful need be sustained by something so"—he regarded the wood of his staff for a moment—"commonplace." The white, lifeless ashes suddenly kindled with blazing light and the trees surrounding their camp emerged from the shadows in crooked, twisting shapes. "Of course, not all of us need gather fuel for the fire," he said with a self-satisfied chuckle. "Some just have the right touch." Apparently he was as taken with the new arrival as he had been with the Burglar. Thorin turned his eyes to the Wizard and met a curious expression framed by a tumble of silver hair, the craggy terrain of the face thrown into sharp contrast between golden light and velvety shadow. An old face. A wise face. It was waiting for something, for him to recognize the value of the one who had shamed him. Thorin would not oblige. How could he admit to something that wasn't there?

"What news from Bree?" he asked, unwilling to provide Gandalf with the satisfaction he sought.

But the Wizard showed no sign of disappointment. Instead, he laid the staff across his knees and turned his gaze to the trees.

"There still remains a price on your head," he said, "that much I was able to discern. Any Dwarf seen near Bree will raise considerable suspicion against us. We cannot risk taking the East Road, but we _will_ have to cross it. I have devised a route that runs through another forest to the north of here." Thorin thought the Wizard's face darkened, but then it was probably just the wavering light from the fire. "It is called the Chetwood by the woodsmen, and although it will allow us to skirt around Bree-town, it will be no less dangerous, as even the most hidden paths can harbor great peril. We will have to be vigilant and alert, for bears and brigands and all manner of wild things roam about beneath the eaves of the Chetwood."

Thorin nodded his agreement, trying to keep a decidedly indifferent countenance. Gandalf saw right through it.

"Your expression and manner suggest a certain grudgingness," he said. "I suppose there are great many things you are still angry about, being so slow to forget, but would this particular case by chance have anything to do with me and my taking on of strangers to our little party?" When Thorin held his silence, Gandalf leaned towards him, the force of his presence demanding attention. "Thorin." He turned and glared at the Wizard. "You've trusted me thus far to get you on your way, and now I will ask you to trust me once again. And I must admit it will not be for the last time. I cannot explain why, but I feel Ridda's fate is now tied to the quest as well. If you permit it, I would have her along. I think she will prove to be a most valuable asset."

Thorin was growing rather tired of discussing the issue. "Very well," he said, "but I will not have her riding with us." Yes. He felt this to be appropriate. "The manner of her arrival cannot be forgiven." If indeed the Dwarf-maid wanted to go with them, he saw no problem in her having to find her own way to their destination. Maybe next time she would think twice about crossing him.

"Or perhaps it is the damage to your pride that you cannot forgive?"

Thorin whipped his head up to see two clever, oddly youthful blue eyes peering down the long, crooked nose at him. He met their probing curiosity with all the staunchness and obstinacy of a hard-headed Dwarf, unwilling to let his face betray any sense of surprise at this. Gandalf shrewdly took this as a cue to exit and promptly stood up, wincing slightly as his knees popped. Thorin turned his gaze once more to the roaring fire, searching for any discernable shape or form. He knew that it was a foolish thing, of course, but he couldn't seem to ignore a tiny flame of hope that the Dwarf-maid's devilry had set alight in his heart.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you," said the Wizard as he shuffled away towards his bed roll. "The kind of power you saw there does not oft show its face."

But the Dwarf-prince went on staring, searching, afraid that if he stopped doing so for but a moment, the fragile hope, the only hope he had felt for hundreds of years, would be snuffed out like a candle.

* * *

 ** _Mostly talking here again. Sorry. I just want to start up some bonds, plant some relationship seeds, that will come into play later._**

 ** _Feedback please! I take criticism and compliments alike! Don't sugar coat and don't hold back!_**


	8. Questions and Keys

VI

Questions and Keys

* * *

Dawn broke gray and humid as everyone roused themselves for another day's worth of riding. Fíli barely listened as Thorin explained his plan to cross the Great East Road, watching as Gandalf pulled Ridda aside, out of earshot, and spoke to her in low, soothing tones. The Dwarf-maid stood very still, but Fíli saw one of her hands twitch into a fist and then relax again. When she turned around to join the rest of the Company again, her face was deliberately expressionless.

"…make sure to keep an eye on the Road at all times. Am I clear?" A sleepy affirmative rose up from the Company and with a dismissive nod from Thorin, they all went about readying their ponies for the journey. Ridda, however, followed Thorin at a distance to his pony. She said nothing, just stood there, her eyes fixed on him. He must have felt their force boring into his back, or perhaps he was expecting her to approach, for he turned and stared evenly back at her. Fíli wondered how he could stand such intensity. The idle chatter of packing and mounting trailed off uncomfortably. Thorin raised his brows in a seemingly innocent question, as if to say, _and what would you possibly want from me_? Annoyance crept into the dark green fire of her eyes at his willful ignorance.

"I do not deny that I gave you my sword yesterday, nor that my fealty is forever yours," the low voice had not so much as a hint of irritation in it, "but I wonder if I might reclaim the physical symbol of such a bond, especially seeing as I am to be left alone."

Thorin stared her down another moment and then turned and pulled Ridda's sword grudgingly from his pony's saddle. _Left alone?_ Fíli thought. He turned to Kíli who was observing the scene with no small amount of satisfaction. When he noticed his brother's disapproving glare he shrugged.

"You can't say she doesn't deserve it, attacking us like she did." He shot one last dark glance at the Dwarf-maid as she strolled off amongst the trees before mounting his bay pony.

Fíli could hardly believe his ears, but he held his tongue. His brother was hot-blooded, still fired by the vain passions of youth. What was more, he had his uncle's stiff temper, so eager to flare up into rage. _He will have to learn to control it eventually_ , Fíli thought, _but, for now, let him simmer in his own deprecation_.

It took no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the northern border of the Old Forest and the Great East Road again, and everyone blinked in surprise and relief as the midmorning sun suddenly broke through the thinning foliage. Their next obstacle was the Road itself, which now seemed a greater feat to all of them given the precarious circumstances of their presence in Bree. They crossed one at a time, each Dwarf dismounting his stead and leading it across after making sure the road was absolutely deserted. Fíli was last, aside from the Wizard. As he waited his turn, he scanned the other side of the road. It was mostly flat but for some gentle slopes. However, farther down to the East, trees dotted the landscape, sparsely at first, but growing evermore frequent. Over the top of a small rise, Fíli could see an unbroken blanket of canopy. _Another forest_ , he thought, sighing internally.

" _Fíli!_ " He flicked his eyes back to the Road. Dwalin was motioning him forward from across the way where the rest of the Company waited hidden in a deep trench. Fíli took hold of his pony's bridle. The fiery young gray tossed his head temperamentally, unwilling to be lead into open space. _Almost as stubborn as my brother_.

"C'mon, then, you." He gave a firm tug and the pony lurched reluctantly forward. Fíli leaned out from behind a tree and looked both ways several times, the beads in his mustache clicking softly against his cheeks as he turned his head from side to side. No sign of life. He stepped cautiously out onto the dirt road, pulling his unwilling steed behind him as best he could. The road turned out to be much wider than first he realized, and soon Fíli was glancing up and down its length again to make sure he was alone. Then, about halfway across the expanse, his pony decided to rebel altogether and came to a dead halt. No matter how he heaved and cursed, Fíli could not get it to budge.

"Wot's this now, lad," Bofur yelled softly, "there's no time to be restin'!" Fíli shot a murderous glare at the odd little hat, just visible above the lip of the road. At that very moment, the distant creak and clatter of a wooden something reached his ears from the western stretch of road. Fíli renewed his efforts, frantically yanking against the reins, but the fiendish little brute held his ground. To the West, a cart trundled around the bend and into view, drawn by a massive black ox and its equally ponderous master.

Time was up. Fíli abandoned his mount and crossed the remaining distance in a few quick strides, diving into the dusty ditch just as Gandalf emerged from the other side and greeted the Man with a hearty "Good morning!" As if waiting for a cue, the gray pony lifted his head, ears perked, and trotted merrily across to join the rest of the waiting Company. The Big Man gave him but a glance, no suspicion rising to his features. Fíli bit back a flood of frustration and names that threatened to break from between his teeth. The pony only nuzzled at his collar, whickering softly as if in apology. He shoved its nose firmly away and it turned with a mutinous snort. Thorin motioned quickly and soundlessly for them to push on and make an escape while the Man was distracted. They all mounted again and set off at a canter. Within the hour, they had entered the Chetwood. This forest was a great deal smaller than its counterpart across the road, and in no time at all, they were nearing the far end. Up ahead, Fíli could see the trail banked suddenly to the North. Straight ahead to the East, the ground dropped off steeply. Below and beyond the edge, the land was flat and boggy, with a haze of fumes churning above.

"The Midgewater Marsh," said Balin next to him, as if answering an unspoken question. "Better hope Thorin doesn't decide to ride through there."

Before Fíli could respond, a dark, lean shape suddenly crashed onto the path and the ponies all froze in spooked numbness. It emitted a low warning growl, and as it stalked through a patch of sunlight that knifed down through the foliage, Fíli saw it was a sizeable wolf, its slavering mouth drawn back in a vicious snarl. The ponies screamed into motion and reared away from the new danger, Fíli's seeming all too eager to throw him off completely. He hit the ground and rolled immediately aside to avoid the nervous hooves, looking up just in time to see the wolf launch itself at Thorin's steed. Then a chilling howl rose on the still air and at least a dozen more wolves came tearing through the undergrowth in bristly streaks of baleful eyes and flashing teeth. And one of them was barreling straight for him.

It halted, grinned a ravenous grin and eyed him hungrily before springing back into motion. Fíli's hand flew to the concealed knife inside his jacket, but it caught in its sheath as he struggled to his feet. As it was a hair's breadth from his face, Fíli heard the whistle and dull _thwack_ of an arrow hitting its mark. Kíli must have been ready before the attack had even started. The beast jerked to the side from the force of the blow, a shaft sprouting from one eye. Its dead weight hit Fíli as it spun around from the momentum, its body pinning him to the ground and knocking all the air from his chest. Through the coarse, brown fur, he could see the end of the arrow, but instead of Kíli's yellow finch's tail fletching, he saw the sleek, inky feathers of a raven. Fíli turned his head to one side, peering through the chaos of flailing limbs and flashing steel.

Then, he spotted her, crouched in the lower branches of a nearby tree, wielding a bow of ebony wood, as dark and dangerous looking as her sword. There was no time to think about where it had come from, Fíli was just glad she knew how to use it. He twisted his frame around, trying desperately to push the wolf corpse off, finally succeeding in sliding out from beneath it. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, a blade in each hand and a pulse racing in his ears. He glanced around, quickly assessing their situation. Everyone was still on his pony, and seemed to be holding his own against their assailants, but Fíli could not find Thorin anywhere. Then he glanced down the path and saw his uncle struggling against the first wolf they had seen, the largest of the pack. And it was clear that the beast had the upper hand. Thorin's sword was still strapped to his pony's saddle, about thirty paces off.

Fíli started toward them, but then the fiend caught Thorin's cloak between its teeth, tearing it right off his back. The Dwarf was flung hard against a tree trunk and hit the ground, momentarily dazed. The heavy wool fell over the wolf's head and it reared away, bucking and tossing its head wildly. Fíli had almost reached Thorin when he sat up suddenly, clutching at something around his neck—or something _not_ around his neck. He saw his nephew running toward him and flung out his hand for him to stop.

"THE KEY!"

Thorin motioned desperately toward the wolf, which was straying off in the direction of the cliff, still blinded by the cloak. Fíli felt his stomach drop to his boots. Without thinking, he turned midstride, dropping his knives, and burst into a sprint, tailing the beast as it twisted and turned haphazardly about in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dark figure keeping pace with him through the canopy above. The sounds of fighting faded behind him until all he could hear was the rush of his breath and their footsteps crashing through the ferns. He was fast closing the distance between himself and the wolf, but the edge seemed to hurtle ever more quickly towards them.

And then there was no more ground left. With a surprised yip, the wolf disappeared over the edge. Fíli lunged the final few feet and grabbed the cloak in one fist. He enjoyed a split second of relief before the beast's weight began to drag him toward the edge.

"Fíli!" He snapped his head up as dirt gave way to air beneath him. Something black swung down close to his head, and he seized it with his free hand, holding on with all his will to live. Dwarf, cloak, and wolf alike flew through the air, swinging round, back towards the forest. Fíli felt his hand begin to slip and cried out in anguish. _Not like this_ , he thought. But then he felt someone's hand take hold of his. He caught a glimpse of calm green eyes before the solid ground rose up and slammed into them. They rolled over and over, uncontrollably, the undergrowth slashing at Fíli's face like a thousand tiny knives. He lost both his grip on the cloak, and his bearings in this dizzy, tumbling world. He wrapped his arms tightly around the body rolling with him, just to hold onto something. He hardly noticed when they stopped, for the incessant spinning in his head. When the ground finally ceased moving beneath him, he found he was lying on his back, the weight of a body, which he assumed to be the wolf's, on top of him. Then, he felt something tickling his face. He opened his eyes and they focused slowly on little wisps of dark hair caressing his cheeks with every breath he took. Then he noticed two eyes trained on him. They were as hard and brilliant as emeralds with flecks of gold and fire like stolen sunlight.

"Ridda?" Their faces were inches apart, their noses almost touching, their breath mingling in the space between them.

"We almost lost something too precious to replace." She push herself off of him.

"I assure you, I won't be doing that again for a long time," he said, sitting up slowly.

Ridda was on her feet already, eyeing him over her shoulder. "I was speaking of the cloak, actually." She turned and held out her hand, palm facing forward. A black staff came spinning, end-over-end, through the undergrowth and straight into her outstretched fingers. Fíli stared in awe.

"You can do all that, and yet you _asked_ for your sword back from my uncle? Why didn't you just take it?"

She didn't answer, just looked at him again, her features inscrutable. Just then, the rest of the Company came crashing through the trees, Kíli in the lead, with Gandalf close behind, having caught up and found them. Ridda paid them no heed, just turned her gaze to the staff in her hand. It was slim and long and black as night, the very top carved into the shape of an open hand with a piece of unrefined onyx in its grasp. But then the hand closed into a fist around the stone and the staff wasn't a staff anymore but a deadly blade. Fíli realized he was staring at the sword she had wielded against Thorin the day before. Everyone, even the Wizard, joined Fíli in astonishment at what their eyes had just witnessed. Ridda sheathed the blade, bent over the cloak and began to rummage through its folds. The wolf was gone, most likely run off or lost over the edge, but that was not the object of her search. After a moment, she stood, the cloak in one hand, and Thráin's key glinting dimly in the other. Kíli ran forward, helped his brother to his feet, and returned the knives he had flung aside. Ridda crossed to where Thorin stood, studying her distrustfully.

"You gave me back something of mine," she said, holding out the key and cloak to him, "and now I return the favor, twofold." Thorin took them without a hint of gratitude.

"Except the value of the one far outweighs that of the other." He eyed the hilt of the sword that jutted out from behind her left shoulder, and then moved his gaze back to her. She held it steadily for a moment, and then blinked and turned away, seemingly unscathed.

"Durin's beard, lassie!" Balin had his eyes still fixed on the hilt of her sword. "And I thought I had seen the pinnacle of craftsmanship."

"It's not craftsmanship, Balin," Thorin retorted, his gaze still on the Dwarf-maid. "It's naught but mind tricks and devilry."

Balin appeared not to hear. "What on earth do you call a thing like that?" he asked.

If anything, Ridda seemed troubled that her weapon should be called to attention, but she answered all the same.

"I call it Reckoning, harbinger of death, warden of justice." Her eyes, fixed on the ground, grew dark with unwelcome memories. "Forged with the essence of my Curse, heated in the fires of my rage, tempered in the depths of my misery, honed on the rock of my will." Her gaze lifted from the ground, traveling slowly upward. "I am bound to it, and it to me." When her eyes reached Balin's face, they seemed almost afraid.

"We are one."

* * *

By nightfall, they had skirted the Midgewater and entered the Weather Hills just North of the Lone-lands without further incident.

Fíli was assigned first watch with his brother. He sat beneath a dried out old tree, sharpening his knives. He gritted his teeth against the soft screeching of his knife on the whetstone. From the day Dwalin had first shown him how to sharpen a blade, he had never been able to accustom his ears to the sound that sent shivers up his spine. Nevertheless, Fíli took great care and considerable pride in the constant shine and polish of his knives, having endured the clamour of screaming steel every night for near sixty years. He ran his thumb along the vicious edge, smiling in satisfaction when he felt the skin break and saw blood on the metal, inky black in the darkness. And dark it was.

Fíli suddenly realized just how much he missed the halls of Ered Luin, far away to the West, and growing ever more distant. He missed the corridors and chambers echoing with deep cheerful voices, falling asleep every night in the golden light of a roaring hearth. Here in the gloomy, lifeless terrain of endless slopes, even the light of the tended cooking fire seemed dim and pale, hardly reaching the spot where he sat, not twenty paces away. The sky was utterly starless, and though Fíli had been raised in the very depths of solid stone, he had always taken comfort in the sparkling distant jewels above, as if they were sentinels of Middle-Earth, watching constantly over all.

"Do you think she can be trusted?" Fíli sighed, his mind returning to the present as his brother sat down next to him.

"Well, yes, seeing as she saved my life." He turned to meet the dark questioning eyes, recognizing unmasked apprehension. He needed more than just a superficial answer. He needed reassurance. "I believe she means well," he said slowly, trying to discern his own feelings, "but she _is_ dangerous. She has adequately demonstrated that. I think she could kill any one of us if she wanted to." The dark eyes grew darker, receding beneath a petulant brow. Fíli saw Kíli's hand tighten around the bow at his side.

"Not me, she couldn't" he said, glancing around as if she were lurking somewhere nearby, a very real possibility, given the present gloom. "I'll be ready."

"Oh, come off it!" Fíli took his knife and rapped the back of his brother's hand with the flat of the blade. "I said she _could_ , not that she would. You heard her yourself: if she had wanted to kill us, we'd already be dead."

Kíli stood up, undeterred. "Do you always so readily believe the word of a stranger? This is unlike you, brother. But for our bond, I'd say you were taking _her_ side." He began to back away.

"You know very well where my loyalties lie," Fíli bristled, bracing for a fight. But instead, Kíli bent, yanked an arrow from his quiver, and whipped around, perfectly poised and still, his body taught as the bowstring he held in his fingers. Fíli spotted his target almost immediately, being very familiar with his brother's routine. It was a single, strangely luminescent flower that opened its delicate, gossamer petals with the rise of every moon. It seemed to glow in the stifling night, casting its sheen out like a silvery beacon. Fíli had heard tell of such blossoms growing in the Old Forest, but that place was now, thankfully, a good day's ride behind them, farther than any wind could carry. He wondered how this one flower had managed to take root in such remote and unfavorable conditions, and so very far from its origins. There was a noticeable and unsettling lack of chattering creatures out in such an exposed environment, so much so that Fíli heard perfectly when Kíli's breath began to slow in preparation for release. The quiet became suddenly deafening, the air pushing in around Fíli's ears like a wet cloth.

Then several things happened all at once.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a shudder tripped its way up his spine, unlike any resulting from the sound of metal on stone. Kíli exhaled a final time and released the bowstring just as a shadow materialized behind him and knocked the recurve to one side.

Fíli watched the stray missile tear its path through the heavy night air until a stiff and sudden wind rose up from the southern hills and ushered it back towards its target. It hit the flower dead center and pinned it to the hard-packed dirt of a small rise behind.

Kíli stared incredulously for a moment at the distant quivering shaft and then spun around.

"Fíli, what do you—" Then he realized that his brother hadn't moved a hair from his place. Kíli turned his eyes to the true cause of his alarm, as she stepped closer.

"There was a draft rising." Ridda threw back her hood and regarded him for a moment. "I could hear the hills wailing to one another from afar." Spry as a cat, she vaulted up into the bony little tree just above Fíli as if nothing had happened. "Couldn't have you missing your mark twice in two days now, could we?"

Kíli stood stone still, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes riveted on her in deadly warning.

"I never miss my mark." He had a stiff pride in him, a witness to the royal blood running through his veins. Ridda paid no heed to his words, but kept on as if he had not spoken.

"Had you minded the wind yesterday, you might just have rid yourselves of such an unwelcome guest." She lounged along the length of one tree limb, completely at ease, her hooded gaze an unspoken challenge. Fíli watched as black rage kindled in his brother's eyes, thinking he might spring on her at any moment. They stayed like this for a time, frozen in breathless tension. Then, to Fíli's surprise, his brother exhaled a breath he had been holding and relaxed his shoulders.

"I never miss my mark," he said again, jaw twitching. "My aim was perfect that day." He turned on his heel and stomped off into the darkness to retrieve his arrow. Fíli risked glance at Ridda, finding nothing but cool impassivity. But then she sat up, her brows drawing together as Kíli's words seemed to settle in. A flicker of doubt and then her face was as smooth and blank as polished stone. Her hard, intelligent eyes found his face and he struggled against the urge to get up and go join his brother.

"Don't mind him," he managed to say instead. "He's just suspicious is all."

She lifted her chin slightly. "And you are not?" Fíli dropped his eyes.

"Would you blame me if I was?"

"Well, I hardly expected you not to be." Her eyes were piercing, but not unkind.

Fíli stood up so that he was at eye level with her, his thirst for answers superseding his uneasiness. "It's just—you came so quickly, so suddenly, claiming all sorts of things about yourself. I mean, how do we really know you're from Erebor? No one who was there remembers you, at least nothing but a single word."

"That's just it." She reminded him of an inquisitive owl the way she cocked her head to and fro. "The best kept secrets in this world are the forgotten ones."

"But how can you be from back then? You don't even look all that old!" She raised an impish brow, daring him to continue. The corners of her mouth twitched when he didn't.

"I am two-hundred and three." A full-fledged smile broke across her face at Fíli's gaping expression. "Yes, I am well aware that I am older than your uncle." The unfocused haze of memory fell over her eyes, but did nothing to quench their potency. "I still remember the day he was born, how the music and the joy shook the bones of the Mountain. But nobody need know," she said leaning closer. "And while we are speaking of your uncle, how exactly does he intend to enter the Mountain when he gets there? If you don't mind my asking."

"That key you gave him today? Gandalf says that's our way in." Fíli didn't see why she shouldn't know.

"But surely it cannot be that simple?" She glanced over his shoulder at the distant fire. "There is not a lock to every key," she said, "nor is there always a question to every answer. What makes him think there is a door that that key will open?" Her voice dropped to hardly more than a whisper, as if she was thinking more to herself than talking to him. "What is he holding on to?"

Fíli shrugged. "I don't know. Hope, I suppose." He thought he saw surprise flash in her eyes for a moment as she peered at him again, but he couldn't be sure.

"But to risk your life for the key the way you did? That is more than hope." She blinked once in resolve. "And I am willing to trust it."

Fíli couldn't think of what to say. Then, he heard the sounds of snapping twigs, and swiveled around to see his brother returning, the shaft in his hand along with the pierced silver flower. Kíli stopped short, keeping a safe distance between them, but still within earshot. Ridda lifted her head and regarded him curiously.

"He seems quite taken with his arrows," she remarked.

"They are very precious," Fíli returned, thankful for a change of subject. "Their heads were carved from a stone cut from Erebor's halls and carried all the way to Ered Luin by our mother." This time, the surprise on her face was unmistakable. "What is it?" he asked.

She set her features carefully back in place and shook her head. "Nothing."

She slid down from her perch and made to leave, but then stopped, and turned to look at Kíli's brooding form, hesitating on the verge of something. "Forgive me if I seem insensitive," she said at last, and Fíli had no doubt that his brother could hear her. "I have not yet learned to conquer my pride, to show respect for my betters, respect you rightly earned the day you chose to spare my life." She dropped her eyes and frowned as if struggling to find words through some internal conflict.

"Thank you."

And then she was gone.

* * *

 ** _Hey. Don't mind me, just planting more seeds. Hope you liked the action, though. Good distraction, no?_**

 ** _I wonder who Ridda will talk to next..._**


	9. Into the Woods

VII

Into the Woods

* * *

"We'll camp here for the night."

Kíli took one look at the old hut and decided he did not like this place. It could hardly be called a hut anyway, barely more than a skeleton with what remained of its drooping thatched roof nearly touching the littered stone foundation.

"Fíli, Kíli, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them." Kíli felt his shoulders sag almost as much as the roof. _Thirteen hours_ , he thought. _Thirteen hours we've been trudging through barren, flat nothingness. Thirteen hours from dawn 'til dusk and now he wants us to_ watch the ponies _?_ He turned to his brother, who had already dismounted, and caught his eye. Fíli read his rebellious expression like an open book and shook his head in warning.

"Leave it," he said. Kíli bit back the string of choice words that came to mind and swung himself off his steed.

"Óin, Glóin." Thorin's strong voice seemed weary and strained. "Get a fire going."

"Right ye are," Glóin called back.

"I think it would be wiser to move on." Gandalf turned from his inspection of the abandoned hut. A few of them paused momentarily in their activities, unsure. A Wizard's words should never be idly brushed aside. Thorin looked briefly back over his shoulder at them before joining Gandalf in more private discussion.

Kíli turned to start unsaddling the ponies. Bilbo's was the closest. He watched as the Hobbit began struggling with the straps, carrying on resolutely despite the amused looks the Dwarves were giving him. Kíli let him struggle a few moments more before stepping forward and offering his help. The Hobbit was only too happy to oblige.

"What is this place," Bilbo muttered to himself as he stepped back to give Kíli room.

"The Trollshaws," said Balin nearby. He scanned the fringes of the trees that sulked beyond the abandoned hut as he pulled his sleeping things from the saddle. The onset of twilight gathered a spectacular gloom beneath their eaves. From the canopy rose a soaring cliff face, old and scarred and uninviting in the fading light. The sight raised the hairs on the back of Kíli's neck. Of all the forests they had encountered thus far, he liked the look of this one the least.

"There you are, Myrtle," he said turning back to the Hobbit's pony and giving her neck a pat. She looked very grateful indeed, now relieved of her weighty saddle and the extra blankets they had placed atop for the Hobbit's comfort.

" _Help_?"

Kíli lifted his head, staring in the direction from which his uncle's voice had come. He could just see the tip of Gandalf's hat through the rotting wooden beams of one wall, waggling comically as its owner shook his head at something Thorin was saying. " _…Erebor….Elves...Orcs….nothing…...betrayed…_ " Kíli managed to catch the words his uncle said with especially heightened disgust. That was all. The rest of the apparently heated conversation fell frustratingly out of earshot. Kíli sighed. Then Myrtle suddenly stuck her nose close to his head and snorted hot, moist air into his ear, drowning out even the incoherent tones of the discussion. The offending snout emitted a mischievous whicker as he shoved it away and strode back to his own pony.

As he mounted again to go find a safe place for the rest of the ponies, he heard the Hobbit's voice again, this time a great deal more distressed.

"Everything alright? Gandalf, where are you going?"

"To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense," the words came curt, and rough with pipe smoke.

"Who's that?" Bilbo's voice was dropping confidence by the second.

" _Myself_ , Mr. Baggins!" The Hobbit didn't respond, but only stood in astonishment along with the rest of the Company. "I've had enough of Dwarves for one day."

Kíli watched as the Wizard stormed right through the Company's ranks, back onto the road, and out of sight. Then, he turned and met his brother's troubled eyes as Thorin emerged from the abandoned cottage.

"Come on, Bombur, we're hungry," he called.

* * *

Sometime later, long after nightfall, he stood in a similar place, right outside the ruins, just looking. The wafting smoke from the cooking fire did very little to help. It burned his tired eyes as he strained them into the darkness. He knew very well how useless it was, looking for her. From what he had already seen, she could make herself practically invisible, regardless of the hour. All the same if she was here, if she was in fact watching him at this moment, he wanted her to see that he distrusted her, in every sense of the word. He wanted her to feel unwelcome, simply because she was.

A scuff of leather and swish of a cloak heralded Balin's approach behind him. He turned, keeping his eyes fixed on some obscure point in the darkness.

"Any sign of her?" His voice dragged in his throat, making him wonder how long it had been since a sip of water had passed his lips.

Balin shook his head. "No, not yet."

He nodded, having expected as much.

"Won't you come to the fire, Thorin? There's an odd chill in the air. It bites to the bone." Thorin took one look at the smoldering glow coming from the farmer's hut and thought it utterly stifling. He shook his head, more to clear it than to decline Balin's request.

"I would not find rest there, not while shadows steal about in the night."

"If that were true you would have died of exhaustion long ago," said the old Dwarf, "for every night is full of shadows. She will come of her own accord, and until then, it will do you no good to worry."

Thorin finally turned his eyes on Balin, hardly seeing his face. "You think I _worry_? For _her_?" A thrill of humor tugged the corners of his mouth up in a bitter smile. "I am _watching_." Then, he stepped around his friend and started away from the old cottage, muttering, "Keep your eyes open," in scratchy tones.

* * *

In the night-shrouded depths of the Trollshaws, Kíli continued to keep watch over the ponies with his brother, rather disgruntled at the fact that their dinner had not yet arrived. But he knew very well that his discontentedness was only a front, for himself if for no one else, something to occupy his attention. More than anything, more than the hunger, he fought against a growing sense of unease the forest seemed to stir up within him. The undergrowth ran wild over everything, climbing, clawing, crowding. The shadows pressed around the tree trunks with spindly hands, bearing the watery moon beams on their skeletal backs. He could hear them jeering at him, cackling with their rotten teeth and their black breath.

A pony whickered. Something rustled in the brush.

Kíli reached instinctively into his cloak, feeling his fingers wrap around a familiar, smooth shape. He closed his eyes, taking courage in its solidity. This was real, not the shadows. He brought it out in his closed hand and bore it to the eerie moon. It was usually dark, almost black in color, but it drank the silvery light from above, glowing with a life all its own. Every crack became a vein, the center and brightest part, a heart. And carefully etched into its surface were six runes. " _Innikh dê_ ," they said. " _Return to me_."

This stone was more than just a talisman, it was a promise, a contract as binding as his own honor. As he looked at it, he felt his mother's touch, first her hand on his own, closing his fingers over the polished rune-stone, then her kiss on his forehead, gentle as a breeze, and sweet as birdsong.

"I thought she would have shown up by now," his brother whispered beside him, "scaring all of us half to death in the process, of course." He straightened his back and shifted himself slightly with a smile. "No doubt Thorin will be looking for her to come. He'll be wanting to give her another piece of his mind."

Kíli smiled too. "It's like watching two wolves circling each other, like two forces of nature about to collide." He leaned back against a tree trunk and glanced skyward. He could barely see the stars. It made him feel utterly lost. "Those two would stand at a stalemate until the ground crumbled beneath their feet before either gave in. Did you see the way they glared at each other yesterday? I swear on Durin's name I do _not_ want to be around when _that_ storm breaks."

Something rustled again in the brush.

Fíli shook his head, his grin ever-widening. "Aye, they'll turn half of this world to ashes before they're through, I reckon."

A third rustle stirred in the brush, this time louder, and much closer. He whipped towards the noise, straight as an arrow. "What in Middle-Earth w—Kíli! Kíli, where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" he hissed back, tucking the rune-stone away, having already taken several steps in the direction of the rustle. "Stay here and watch the ponies." Kíli quieted his breathing as much as he dared, still struggling to hear above the blood that pounded in his ears. The rustle was loud enough, though, that he heard clear as day where it was coming from. His boots, heavy as they were, hardly made a sound as he flitted through the undergrowth, letting his hunter's ears lead him to the source. It was a large shrub, shivering from something at its center, its broad waxy leaves rustling drily. Kíli crept closer half expecting to find Ridda as he peered deep into the branches—and was surprised to see two glowing red eyes staring back at him. Suddenly, a black leathery shape burst from the shadows with a screech almost too high for him to hear. A cry broke from between Kíli's lips and he fell back away from the creature as it beat the air with frantic bony wings.

"Kíli? Kíli!" He heard his brother's considerably less subtle approach. Kíli had always been the stealthier of the two, but what Fíli lacked in furtiveness he made up for with speed. He was on the scene in half the time, knives already bared and gleaming. He helped his brother to his feet, asking "What was it? What did you see?"

"It's alright," said Kíli somewhat breathlessly, "it was only a bat." In fact, he could still see the furry creature, flapping haphazardly away in the direction of the great cliff face. Kíli turned to see the beginnings of a wicked grin spreading across his brother's features.

"Don't—" Kíli began, but it was already too late.

"You're telling me you were frightened halfway back to the Blue Mountains by a _bat_?" Fíli threw back his head and howled in mirth, his golden mane turned silver by the moon. It made him look like an old Dwarf-father, long-lived and content. Kíli smiled. He didn't even care that his brother's amusement was at his own expense. The sound of Fíli's laughter had become such a rare thing in recent years, he had learned to cherish every chuckle.

The hilarity was suddenly cut off by a horrendous cracking noise followed by a creaking thud that shuddered powerfully through the earth. In the distance, Kíli could hear startled whinnies and whickers. He turned and locked eyes with Fíli.

"The ponies," they said synchronously and took off in the direction they had come, tearing heedlessly through fern and foliage alike, bounding over fallen logs and dodging around tree trunks. Within a few moments they burst into the clearing where the ponies were hobbled. It looked very much the same as when they had left it—that is apart from the two uprooted trees that had been standing not a few minutes before. Indeed, their branches were still shivering from impact with the ground and Kíli caught blurs of gray in the darkness as all manner of tree-dwelling creatures fled their fallen homes.

"Two ponies are gone," said Fíli, already mostly recovered from their race through the woods. "Thorin will have our hides for this."

Kíli felt his shoulders sag again. So shocked were they with the immediacy of events that they simply stood in silence, still enough that Kíli heard the nearly inaudible approach of unshod feet behind them and caught the smell of Bombur's favorite stew recipe. Dinner was here.

 _It's about bloody time_ , he couldn't help thinking.

There was a brief pause as the Hobbit stopped between them and then seemed to perceive that something was amiss. "What's the matter?"

"We're supposed to be looking after the ponies," Kíli blurted immediately, his mind racing.

"Only we've encountered a—slight problem." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fíli turn and glance at him.

"We had sixteen," Kíli continued.

"Now there's…fourteen." When they were children, they used to do this all the time, finishing each other's thoughts just to annoy their uncle. Now it was automatic to Kíli, instinctive, like reading his brother's mind.

A quick inspection revealed to him that Bungo and Daisy had disappeared. He said as much as he rejoined his brother by the torn roots of one tree.

"W-well that's not good." Bilbo emitted a nervous sound somewhere between and chortle and a whimper. "That's not good—at all. Shouldn't we tell Thorin?"

Kíli tensed. That was literally the last thing they needed at the moment.

"Uh—no," said Fíli, thinking quickly. "Let's not worry him. As our official Burglar we thought you might like to look into it."

That caught him off guard. The Hobbit glanced around, stuttering something just as obvious as the last thing he had said. Kíli agreed politely, trying to put the pieces together himself.

"Hey!" Fíli's eyes were fixed on something in the distance. "There's a light," he whispered as he dropped into a slight crouch. He turned, looking right past Bilbo and motioning to his brother. "Over here!"

The Hobbit moved surprisingly fast as they maneuvered closer, still juggling the two bowls of stew he had brought, gone cold by now, no doubt. "Stay down," Kíli breathed as they huddled behind a massive fallen tree. They all stared for a few moments at the sultry glow of fire, listening to the sounds of snorting and odious laughter that came from it. The pieces all clicked into place in Kíli's mind and his stomach dropped to his boots. _Thorin will definitely have our hides_.

Then Bilbo asked the question he wished he didn't have the answer to. "What is it?"

Kíli clenched his jaws against a growing panic and forced the word out.

"Trolls."

* * *

 _ **Here's a little more brother-to-brother interaction. I couldn't help myself, I just love their relationship.**_

 _ **MAJOR SHOWDOWN NEXT CHAPTER**_

 _ **Better go check it out, and leave a review on your way!**_


	10. Those Who Live in Nightmares

VIII

Those Who Live in Nightmares

* * *

Thorin found a spot to sit at the fringes of the forest, still within sight of the old cottage and his Company. There was a fallen tree there, and the stump was worn from weather and rot. The wood was soft but dry, perfectly comfortable. Almost like a throne, like a place he could sit and think and simply be alone. Thorin closed his eyes, but kept his ears open wide, knowing somehow that he would not be alone for very long at all.

"It's no use." He snapped his eyes open again and suddenly she was just sitting there, on the trunk of the fallen tree, as if she had been there the entire time. Thorin was almost sure she could hear his heart in his chest, but was it astonishment or anger that had set it pounding?

"What's no use," he said, struggling to keep his breathing even.

"This brooding," she said. "All day and all night." She sounded incredibly tired, not at all up to her usual cynical wit. There was not a trace of humor in her features, not a sparkle in her riotous green eyes.

 _I see your mind_. Her lips did not move, but her voice sounded through his mind. _Your dreams_. She slowly turned her gaze on him, impaling him with those eyes. An image flashed across his vision, clear as the waking world, dragged to the surface from the darkest corners of Thorin's own mind. _I see the foul memories you torture yourself with_. It was an image he had seen a thousand times, in the terror fraught hell of his nightmares. It was the aftermath of Azanulbizar, and the dead bodies of the fallen towered to the clouds in glistening red columns. But every corpse was a bloody gold coin now. _Beyond the count of grief_.

So it was to be a different attack this time, he thought, a duel of minds instead of swords. Thorin supposed he could do little but simply endure it, but his heart sank at the thought that he was no better equipped for this than he had been for their prior confrontation.

"They remind me of why I must succeed." He said it truthfully, holding onto the image instead of pushing it away. "I must continue for those who cannot."

A frown like a faint shadow flitted across her face, as if she felt his mind tugging on the vision she had placed there. _Do you mean the dead? The soldiers lost on the field of battle?_ Her voice held not a hint of doubt, and her features were once again relaxed. _Do not forget that they brought it upon themselves. They marched with you knowing very well that they could lose their lives within the hour. The dead care no longer for the rise and fall of this world. Some I have spoken to simply forget who they were in life._

"But the living do not forget. And as long as their memory is strong in our minds, they never truly perish." Thorin supposed it was foolish to think she had not spoken to at least one of the souls who fell before the Gates of Moria, but she was wrong to ask him to forget the price they paid.

 _What of your own home?_

Thorin froze as a new image blazed before his mind's eye. It was his home. The Lonely Mountain. _Or had you forgotten?_ As hard as he tried to mask it, the Dwarf-maid caught the flicker of shock that slackened his features. The question had caught him completely off guard. _Don't look so surprised, I was there_ , she said. _For all of it_. To tell the truth, Thorin had very often thought of Smaug, and Smaug alone in that forsaken Mountain, but never had the possibility of his own people in there _with_ the dragon ever entered his wildest imaginings. _What do you suppose happened when the dragon closed the door behind him? When the soldiers fled in fear?_

Ridda's face turned suddenly dark, her body going unnervingly still. _You have not seen Death_. Her voice was a bitter hiss in his mind. _Just what comes after, what it leaves behind in its silent wake. I have stared down its black jaws, a thousand times over. In the deep dark of that Mountain, it came to all trapped inside_. Thorin clenched his fists but said nothing. The brazen, unyielding presence of her mind bore relentlessly into his own. _A thousand of them, men, women, children. A thousand sets of blind eyes. A thousand clawing hands. A thousand lives snuffed out one by one in front of me_. Her soft tones slithered into his thoughts. A black veil fell suddenly over his eyes, and in the darkness, he discerned pale, gaunt faces, frozen in gruesome terror. He could almost hear the screams.

 _Death is not loud, Thorin Oakenshield_.

A dead silence pressed in upon his ears. Yes, he could definitely hear the screams now.

 _It is not the clamour called war you have mistaken it for. It has not wings nor scales nor fire. It does not announce its presence, nor does it show favor. It comes quietly, steals swiftly, and then is gone_. Thorin decided to assume that this was in fact the truth. He couldn't imagine why she would want to lie about such things.

"And yet somehow Death has passed _you_ by." Her eyes flared as she fastened them onto his face.

"I _am_ Death." Her words shivered deafeningly through the still air and Thorin felt a paralyzing cold suddenly grip his heart. _I am Death with flesh and bones_. She closed her eyes and let her head fall to her chest. _This body is my own, and yet I am its prisoner. I cannot die now, and I could not die then, and so is the way of the Curse_. Her eyes opened suddenly wide. _All those Dwarves, my kin made captors, and from captors to corpses. They all died. And I did not, though you would scoff at how much I wanted to. But I was made to watch as they fizzled out one by one until there was nothing left but me, the gold, the dragon, and the cold stone_. He saw an image of gold coins again, but they were different. The metal was dim, flickering in the light of a distant fire. _I was made to watch as that beast devoured the bodies of my kin_. Thorin saw as the light reflected in the gold grew brighter and hotter until the coins were set alight in a roaring conflagration. _He didn't find all of them, I'm afraid. There was a room he could not get to. The doorway was too small, and I suspect the bodies are still there today. That is where I hid. Amongst the remaining Dwarves of Erebor. And I, the sole survivor, crowned myself Queen under the Mountain_. She cocked her head to one side and the shadows slid down her cheek like the caress of a black hand.

"Queen of the Tomb."

In many ways, the words were more disturbing coming from her mouth than simply whispering through his thoughts. They came out like a song, a sadistic little tune that gave Thorin the impression that just maybe all was not quite well with her mind.

 _One day the dragon left to find food_ , she continued, her eyes unfocused, her head still tilted askew, _made a hole for himself right through the front door. And I trailed him out, then followed the Running River down to Esgaroth, and from there to Greenwood the Great. That was when the Elves found me and took me as prisoner_.

Thorin straightened. "You know of the Elves?" His blood came beating back to life, making heat rise to his cheeks. "The ones who betrayed us?"

Something not unlike a smile crossed her features, as if his sudden passion amused her. "More dangerous, and less wise. And so it is." Her eyes grew distant, her smile fading as quickly as it had come. "They put me in a cage. They did not speak to me. Most of the time it was as if they had forgotten they had me." Another image entered Thorin's thoughts, but this one was not his own. It was a cell, the bars strong but gracefully hewn, the hallway without dim with amber lanterns set into the walls. He saw tall, slight figures passing back and forth. They were the Elves of Mirkwood. The image was Ridda's memory from Thranduil's dungeons. "But every now and again, an esteemed visitor would arrive from some distant kingdom and they would descend into their dungeons to look at me." Then the King of the Woodland Realm himself appeared at the bars, his arrogant head cocked to one side. "They would stare through the bars as if I couldn't see, talking as if I couldn't hear." The image dissolved to black. "But I listened. And I watched. And in their ignorance I grew strong. And one day they came down to look at their curious little trinket, but I was gone. So you see, I have no more love of Thranduil and his kin than you." She raised her head and looked at him, surprisingly sincere. "And yet I do not believe that the Elves of Rivendell are the same as the ones that abandoned you in your hour of need."

And just like that, his anger rose again, as if she had it on a puppet string and gave it a tug whenever it tickled her fancy. "What do you know of Elves?" he rumbled. "For all I know, you are taunting me. You think I will heed these rotten scraps of counsel you whisper in my ear? You think you can curry my favor with a well-told story? I am not so easily won."

"I can assure you there was not a thought of curry running through my mind." Her remarkable eyes were back to their hooded smoldering selves along with their high-browed sparkle. There was something else there too, like relief, as if she had just unloaded a great burden upon him. "And while we are speaking of your little band of followers, it seems you have failed to recognize a rather pressing logistical issue. There are only twelve of them, thirteen counting yourself." She paused as if waiting for an answer, but when none came, she continued on. "What do you suppose will happen when you reach the Mountain's threshold? Do you think all of Middle-Earth will rush to your aid when you lift a finger? Or perhaps you think you can drive the dragon out with the _power of your voice!_ " She lifted her face to the sky at these last few words and flung them at the stars. Thorin was sure the others had heard.

"No. There is a certain item which I seek. It was lost when my kingdom fell." It was as if she had pried open a locked door in his mind and his every thought was at her mercy. He tried to stop his lips from forming the words, but to no avail. _An exchange of secrets_ , he thought vaguely to himself. "When I wield it, the Dwarven armies will remember their honor and their duty to me, and we will no longer be thirteen, but thirteen thousand."

A shadow crept into the green fire, and it looked to Thorin as if the sadness in her eyes had deepened.

"So many years you have, Thorin Oakenshield, and yet so much still to learn."

"And what could I learn from the likes of you?" He had started to get the feeling that she was playing with him. She looked at him as if the answer was obvious.

"Tolerance. You are a soul as lonely as your Mountain, and bitter as the woodland Elves you despise. You'll not win the heart of a single living thing with that malcontented pout on your face." Thorin was powerless to defend himself against these words, words that rang with alarming truth. And he suspected the Dwarf-maid was far from through with him. She was most certainly leading him to some momentous realization, and Thorin decided to play along for the time being.

"What of it?" He lowered his voice into a cautious growl.

"Well, I expect you weren't born the way I was, with no laughter or love in your world." And already she had gone too far for his comfort. How _dare_ she compare herself to him.

"I have laughter." The growl was rapidly rising into a snarl as Thorin struggled to maintain his composure. "I have love."

"But we Dwarves can truly love only once." She cocked her head to the other side now. "Is there no one? No beloved awaiting your return?" Of course he had loved ones. Dís came first to mind. But she was not speaking of blood bonds, this _impossible_ woman. No, she was speaking of something else entirely.

"None." And it was true.

"Oh but that is not true, is it?" Thorin didn't raise his head but glared darkly up at her through his lashes. She appeared unruffled as ever, simply staring deeper into his eyes, into his soul. "I see now. History is not creative. It has a funny way of turning fondly back on itself." Thorin froze in a sudden apprehension he did not quite understand. "You have already given your love away, for a King's heart lies not in any living thing, but in his Mountain. And yours is golden, with a heart of treacherous stone."

The image of an infinitely beautiful white jewel seared itself with blinding heat into the backs of his eye lids. When his vision cleared he stared at her, unnerved. And she stared back, a hint of a smile playing across her lips. How in Durin's name had she guessed it? How did she know of the Arkenstone?

"TROLLS!"

The tension broke audibly as the sound of pounding footsteps and snapping undergrowth suddenly filled Thorin's ears. He whipped around in time to see his nephews burst into the light of the cooking fire, trailing all manner of leaves and twigs. Their eyes found their uncle immediately, though he sat in shadow.

"Thorin!" Fíli shouted as he struggled for air. "Trolls—in the forest—taking—the ponies!"

Thorin swiveled his head back around as he stood, but Ridda was gone. _Coward_ , he thought, completely aware that she was still in his head. He turned and raced into the darkness after his nephews, the image of the King's Jewel still burning in his mind.

* * *

 _ **Whoa. Some heavy stuff.**_

 _ **Honestly, I'm a sucker for a lost soul, and Thorin is the epitome.**_

 _ **The thing that Ridda says about a King's heart belonging to his Mountain I think is critical to later events and situations, that it's something Thorin will struggle with.**_

 _ **I went even further to have her say that Thorin's heart lies with the Arkenstone, the heart of the Lonely Mountain. I think this image is really emblematic of the darker path down which Thorin seems to be heading.**_


	11. With the Break of Dawn

IX

With the Break of Dawn

* * *

The darkness was cool and welcome after the searing heat of the sun. As he rode through the night with his pack, Yazneg clawed at the back of his neck where the leathery skin was beginning to peel. Blisters, boils, and burns. A miserable groan escaped from between his teeth as he scratched. He had endured this torture for days. Orcs were not made for the blinding light of the sun. They thrived in the shadows, the dark places of the world from whence they came. It went completely against his nature to travel at any time between dawn and dusk. He had already lost several Orcs to the heat, made evident in the rising numbers of rider-less Wargs who ran with them. He drove his pack on nonetheless. They made do with spurring their mounts from shadow to shadow, never lingering for too long in the sun. It was under pain of death that they stopped or turned back. Should Yazneg disobey his master, his doom was sealed, and that was a fate a hundred-fold worse than any amount of scorched skin. They would find the Dwarf-scum, or perish in the attempt.

Because of their disadvantage, they had gone purely on scent for days, unable to close the distance at all between themselves and their quarries. For all he knew, they had in fact been falling farther behind, seeing as even the stench of Dwarves had faded to almost nothing. But then one day something else had caught their interest, something that suddenly mingled with the traces of sweaty Dwarves and odorous ponies. It was like a shred of darkness, not the darkness one usually found with the rise and set of every sun, but something altogether much older and—well, _darker_. It was strangely familiar, like the shadows of an old residence long abandoned. Like a presence Yazneg had encountered somewhere before. Sharp as fear and cold as death, it captured the senses, as would a pillar of smoke rising from a ravaged town. For the Orc-riders it was their saving grace, a beacon of dark smoke and green fire, drawing them unfailingly closer to their prey.

They were almost close enough. As they streaked eastward through the lifting darkness, bands of pink and gray on the horizon promised another bright and scorching dawn. But Yazneg cared not. There was something different, a change in the wind. He could taste it in the air as it whipped past his face. He allowed himself a cackle of mirth, his itchy skin completely forgotten. Today was the day. Today, the hunt began.

* * *

Fourteen against three were no odds at all. How was it then, Thorin wondered furiously, that the three had triumphed over the fourteen? The burlap was suffocating. It seemed to hold the heat from the fire inside and he could almost feel his body melting beneath all the leather and wool. Beside him, Fíli, Kíli, Glóin, Óin, Balin, Bombur, and the Hobbit struggled in sacks of their own, looking not unlike great, overfed worms as they wriggled about. But if he was hot now, Thorin could only imagine how the rest of the Dwarves felt tied to the spit that the Trolls were slowly turning over their fire. They bickered as they turned it, trying to come up with the best and most horrendous way to prepare them all for supper. Thorin tried not to listen.

"Never mind the seasoning," the one called Tom finally growled, "we haven't go' all night. Dawn ain't far away, so let's ge' a move on." He gave the spit another turn and the Dwarves moaned in protest. "I don't fancy being turned to stone." Not far from where Thorin lay, the Hobbit suddenly stiffened, his eyes widened, and he glanced about frantically as if he had just realized something.

"Wait!" To Thorin's surprise, the Trolls stopped their quibbling and waited. "You're making a _terrible_ mistake." What in Durin's name was he up to _now_?

"You can't reason with them," Dori called as he came round on the spit, "they're half-wits!"

"Half-wits?" Bofur cried in dismay. "Wot does that make _us_?"

Thorin agreed. They had been outsmarted by a trio of lumbering, incompetent Trolls and now they were going to pay. A blaze of anger hotter than the fire flared in his chest. This was not supposed to happen. The road was supposed to have been easy until now. It was beyond the Misty Mountains that the true dangers awaited. And farther to the East, his home stood empty and unprotected but for the dragon. How were they to survive the rest of the journey if they couldn't even handle a few mountain Trolls? For half a second, he wished Gandalf was there, but then he caught himself. _The Wizard abandoned us_ , he reminded himself, _he and that faint-hearted Dwarf-maid. We can trust no one but our own_. Certainly not this Mr. Baggins, who had gotten them all here in the first place, and who now seemed more concerned with making sure he was cooked the right way than actually escaping with his life. This was queer, he supposed, even for a Hobbit. Thorin stared at him, hard. And then he realized Bilbo wasn't looking at the Trolls, he was looking _beyond_ them, into the trees…

"Wha' a load of _rubbish_!" Tom's exclamation brought Thorin back to the situation at hand. "I've eaten plen'y with their skins on." Apparently, their Burglar had suggested flaying. Thorin made a mental note to deduct a portion of gold from Bilbo's share for that. "Scoff 'em, I say, boots an' all!" Bilbo was searching the trees madly, barely paying them any heed. Thorin followed his line of sight to the fringes of the clearing and caught the corner of a cloak as it disappeared behind a tree trunk. Up in the canopy, the leaves shivered slightly as something moved about. He caught sight of a shadow flitting through the branches, and although the first blush of dawn was beginning to touch the sky, it was impossible to make out exactly what it was.

"'e's right!" said Bill, perhaps the most dim-witted creature Thorin had yet encountered. "Nothin' wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf!" He grasped Bombur by the feet and lifted his considerable bulk off the ground with one hand. "Nice and crunchy."

"No!" shouted Bilbo. "Not that one, h-he's infected!" Everyone, even the Dwarves on the spit stopped and stared at him, utterly bemused.

"You wot?" said Tom.

"Yeah, he's got—worms, in his—tubes!" It was quite preposterous, but it did the trick. Bill tossed Bombur back with a squeal of disgust.

The hefty Dwarf fell straight on top of their pile, nearly knocking the breath out of Thorin's chest. But the impact seemed to jog all the pieces into place and he suddenly understood. Dawn was coming, and that spelled doom for the Trolls should they still be out in the open. All they needed to do was waste time until then.

 _When over hill breaks light of day,_

 _These Trolls will turn to stone and clay._

Thorin couldn't help flinching as an all too familiar voice echoed through his mind. He snapped his head back up to the trees and his eyes met green fire. That was all he saw, despite the first rays of the approaching sun warming the sky. She wore her hood, and a strip of black cloth was pulled up over the lower part her face. Still, he could tell as she smiled at him beneath the kerchief. She raised her brows. _You know what you have to do_ , her expression seemed to say. The Dwarves were all having it out at Bilbo about their lack of parasites. None of them seemed to be catching on. Thorin moved his foot as best he could in his sack and dug it into Kíli's side. The effect was immediate. The Dwarves around him quit their protesting and glanced at him. Then they turned back to Bilbo and the Trolls.

"I've got… parasites as big as m' arm," ventured Óin.

"Mine are the biggest parasites," shouted Kíli, "I've got _huge_ parasites!"

The chorus of voices rose up again, this time in fervent agreement to Bilbo's previously condemned statement. Thorin glanced back up into the trees, but he only saw a few bobbing branches where she had been a moment before.

"Wot would you have us do then?" Tom had to yell to be heard over the caterwauling. "Let 'em all go?"

Bilbo cocked his head to the side trying to appear thoughtful. "Well…"

"You think I don't know what you're up to?" He gave the Hobbit a prod in the chest that nearly sent him to the ground. "This li'l _ferret_ is taking us for fools!"

"Ferret?!" said Bilbo.

"Fools?!" said Bert.

" _The dawn will take you all!_ " The air seemed to part to make room for the echoing command. A familiar cloaked shape appeared on top of a massive boulder that rested at the edge of the clearing.

"Who's _that_?" Bert grunted exasperatedly.

"No idea," Tom rumbled indifferently.

"Can we eat 'im too?" Bill piped hopefully.

Little did they know, they had all just uttered their last words. The figure raised its staff in both hands and brought it down upon the boulder in an immense flash of light. The stone split like wood and the morning sun beamed through the crack, flooding the clearing with gold. Thorin had never liked watching the suffering of any living thing, but the Trolls put on a spectacular show, writhing in dismay as their skin glazed over with rough stone and their bones grew rigid as mountain roots. In but a few heartbeats, it was done. Three carven statues stood posed around their guttering fire, like playthings that had been placed in a dusty corner of the world and then forgotten about. For a few moments, everyone remained still and quiet, looking from one chiseled face to the next, waiting for the creatures to break out of their stony shells and start up their bickering anew. When nothing happened, they all broke into cheers of pure elation. Thorin even allowed himself a brief smile, gazing once more into the trees where he had last seen those piercing green eyes. What was more, the Wizard had come back, and to everyone's great relief, with the exception perhaps of the three ossified Trolls, roasted Dwarf was no longer on the menu.

A bit later, as the Company was rounding up the ponies, and collecting their belongings, Thorin found Gandalf examining one of the Trolls.

"Where did _you_ go to, if I may ask?" He kept his voice moderately agreeable, trying not to incite another argument like the one that had sent Gandalf away in the first place.

"To look ahead," he replied simply.

"And what brought you back?"

He thought longer on this. "Looking behind." They shared a knowing glance for they both knew the true reason for Gandalf's fortunately timed return. And she was standing not twenty paces away, half hidden in the long shadows of the dawn hour, the slanting sunlight catching strands of her hair and spinning them into golden threads. Thorin supposed she was not as much as coward as he had thought. _Thank you_. He sent the thought out to her, not quite sure if she would hear it. There was no response.

"Nasty business." Gandalf eyed the Troll named Bill. "Still you're all in one piece."

"No thanks to your Burglar."

"He had the nous to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that." Thorin bowed his head, at a loss for a rebuttal. "Ridda seemed quite agitated when she caught up with me," the Wizard continued, his face darkening somewhat. "She wouldn't tell me what had done it, but I can't say I know many besides you, Thorin, who have had quite such a vexatious effect on her emotions thus far."

"I provoked nothing," said Thorin, deciding that honesty was the best option in this case. "She came first to me."

"True as that may be," said the Wizard slowly, "you'd do well, I think, not to incite her anger."

Suddenly, Thorin felt like a child facing one of his elders for something he hadn't done. "I do not fear her," he said crossing his arms, "nor her wrath if I should bring it upon myself."

"Well you should," Gandalf said shortly. "Hers is a fury that no living thing can withstand."

As he turned back to examine the Trolls, Thorin thought he caught a flash of fear in his eyes, and there was not a doubt in the Dwarf's mind that he spoke the truth.

"They must have come down from the Ettenmoors."

Thorin looked at him. That was quite a ways for such creatures to travel. "Since when do Trolls venture this far South?"

"Oh, not for an age." The Wizard frowned. "Not since a darker power ruled these lands." Thorin looked into his deep blue eyes and a shudder trickled down his spine like a drop of ice cold water. He glanced back to where Ridda had been, but of course, she had already vanished.

* * *

 ** _I loved the Trolls, both in the book and the movie. This is Tolkien's wit and imagination at their best._**

 ** _Please review with any advice, suggestions, critiques, or and especially compliments :)._**


	12. The Hunting Game

X

The Hunting Game

* * *

"Something's wrong. Something's _terribly_ wrong."

"Yes?" Gandalf's voice was impatient.

The little man in brown rags opened his mouth and then closed it. Then, his eyes lit up and he opened it again, and then closed it.

 _Some Wizard this one is_ , Bilbo thought to himself, thinking back to his previous conversation with Gandalf about the other Wizards who roamed Middle-Earth. It had never occurred to him that he might actually encounter a second on this adventure. No, he thought, one was definitely enough for him.

The blood was still pounding in his ears from Radagast's sudden and quite disorienting arrival, especially seeing as said arrival had been made on a rabbit-drawn sled. Or maybe his discomfort was attributable to the cold and unsettling weight in his hands. The sword Gandalf had found inside the Troll-hoard was a perfect fit, there was no doubt, but Mr. Baggins felt completely incompetent just holding it, never mind trying to use it. For all he knew, this blade could be thousands of years old, having weathered just as many battles. These hands holding it were no warrior's hands. They were Hobbit's hands. Gardener's hands, reader's hands, baker's hands. They were not made to fight, to wield legendary swords so important they had names of their own. This was not right. But the world was not right. Evil was afoot everywhere, and he knew very well that he would have to use this blade before journey's end. To tell the truth, the sword also excited Mr. Baggins. The Took in him itched to swing it about, or was it the child in him? Whatever the case, this blade had rekindled that diminished warmth within him, that wild blaze of fierce and fiery longing for adventure that had sparked with his first step out the front door. But if there was any danger at all of the Took taking charge, Gandalf had set it straight. _True courage_ , he had said, _is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one_. This was the sort of thing he would expect to be coming out of a Wizard's mouth, and not the stick insect currently climbing out of Radagast's. He supposed each one was wise in his own way.

Suddenly, the brown Wizard's rabbits twitched into alertness, their ears standing on end. They stared, petrified at something moving nearby. Bilbo could see it too, though he was perhaps the only one to notice, a dark shape approaching them silently through the trees. At first he assumed it to be Ridda, but of course, he assumed terribly wrong. A few heartbeats passed and the rabbits could stand no more. As one, they sprang forward, dragging the sled and a protesting Radagast after them. Not two seconds later, a great black— _something_ loped into the clearing. It looked to Bilbo almost like the wolves that sometimes roamed the fringes of the Shire, but much larger, and much more intimidating. He could only assume this was a Warg. It stood there in front of everyone, listening, very lean, very ragged, and very hungry-looking. It was so big, its shoulder must have come up past Bilbo's nose, and when it turned it head toward him, he saw two milky white eyes.

Everyone stood frozen for a moment, quite taken aback at such an unannounced and unexpected appearance. Kíli was the first to react, whipping an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to the bow, and releasing before anyone else had even drawn their weapons. He was surprised as anyone to see his shaft suddenly and forcefully deflected, shattering to pieces in midair. There was a dull thud as the offending missile ended its flight in the ground. It was black as pitch. Kíli had barely any time to react as a second foreign shaft whistled like an inky streak past his left ear, piercing through the shoulder of his tunic and pinning it to the tree behind him without even scratching the skin.

 _STOP!_

The single word was so powerfully thrust into their thoughts that most of them dropped their weapons on the spot. Ridda dropped down from a tree in front of the Warg, blocking a thrust from one of Fíli's knives with her ebony bow. Almost immediately, Reckoning began to lengthen before their eyes. She flung out a hand and a pulse of ghostly energy rippled forward, hitting him square in the chest and backward into Dwalin. She turned, hand still outstretched and sent another shadowy charge in Thorin's direction. He halted and braced for the blow, but like the first day, the darkness simply passed through him, leaving him unmoved and unscathed. Ridda's expression twisted into something between frustration and fascination, but then she leveled her fully elongated blade at his neck, daring him to come closer. He held up his hands, his eyes fixed not on her, but the creature behind her. Bilbo had the same idea. He was just waiting for the Warg to decide that it was hungry and that she would be a very tasty morsel indeed.

"I won't hesitate. This sword will be the end of anyone who so much as lifts a finger against him." And she meant it. Her eyes were deadly grim, flitting from one face to the next. Reckoning gleamed darkly in her hands as its tip hovered close to Thorin's throat, thirsty for blood. She would suffer no challenge.

"Are you _mad_?" Balin edged forward, keeping his sword-tip down, his wide eyes on the Warg. "Now's not the time to be growing a conscience over killing every creature we come by. Get away from that thing before it tears you apart!"

As if hearing the Dwarf's words, the black Warg lifted its head and gave Ridda a sniff. Everyone tensed, seeming to draw in a single collective breath. For a moment, the only one moving was Kíli, who strained desperately against the arrow that had fastened him to the tree. Then, to their surprise, the Warg let out a high-pitched whine and nuzzled her in the back. She cocked her head towards it as if it had just told her something, then nodded, removed Reckoning from Thorin's neck, and sheathed it in the scabbard strapped to her back. She spread her hands and swept her gaze over the Company's slack jawed expressions. "Please," her voice was calm and even. "Please just put up your weapons. He means you no harm." After a slight pause, everyone complied. Almost immediately, the Warg stalked out from behind his protector, sniffing the air and swiveling its ears about, as if distinguishing each individual based on scent and sound. Kíli finally succeeded in wrenching the arrow free in a shower of loose bark.

" _He_ ," the young Dwarf said short-windedly.

"Yes." Ridda met his insulted gaze, her face bearing no hint of apology for her well-placed arrow. "His name is Kumathâl."

Kíli looked from the Dwarf-maid to the Warg and back, his appalled expression never changing. "What in Durin's name does _that_ mean?"

Before Ridda could say anything, the Warg threw back its head and let loose a wail as sorrowful and harrowing as a death knell, utterly beautiful in its solitude.

She smiled and gave him a scratch behind the ear. " _Singer_ ," she said. The beast turned at his name and gave another thin whine, his milky eyes resting briefly on Bilbo. The Hobbit shivered and Warg seemed to notice. It lifted its nose in his direction and then began to pick its way toward him. "He is my first and only friend," Ridda continued. "We share a kinship that goes deeper than blood."

"You and a Warg?" Thorin crossed his arms suspiciously over his chest. "How so?" Ridda regarded him for a moment, but when he did not flinch, she turned back to Kumathâl, who was currently circling a certain rather petrified Bilbo Baggins. _Steady,_ mimakhun, her voice whispered soothingly through his head, _let him catch your scent. He will never forget it, and that could save your life one day_.

"He was born without sight," she said aloud, "and I without honor. From the beginning, he was spurned by his kin, never given a chance to show his quality." She turned back to Thorin. "Are we so very different?" He looked away this time, unable to hold the burning question in her eyes.

"So," said Gandalf, having heard the commotion, "here it is." He stood leaning against his staff, regarding Kumathâl with something close to wonder.

Dori looked at him askance. "Sorry? Here's what?"

The Wizard appeared not to notice him, but responded all the same. "The answer to a riddle I have been puzzling over for some time now," he said, his eyes never leaving the Warg. "And now, it stands before us." Dori still looked incredibly confused, but without further explanation, Gandalf strode off to find Radagast again, muttering something about important business.

"He is silent—most of the time—and agile," Ridda explained, "good for keeping pace while remaining unseen."

"Oh, so _that's_ how y' get around, is it?" said Bofur, bending over slightly and resting his hands on his knees, then glancing at her. "Wot, the ponies aren't good enough for yeh?"

She smiled. It was genuine, and for a moment, she seemed years younger to Bilbo. "I'm afraid not. At least not while I must keep to the unbeaten path."

"Wait." Fíli frowned, thinking hard as he ran a hand through his golden mane. "That night, by the canyon…my brother and I heard howling. And then, Kíli saw—"

"He saw me." Ridda gave him a half-smile and then turned to Kíli. "You have very keen eyes. And the one you heard, that was Kumathâl. I couldn't shut him up." The Warg gave a low apologetic rumble. "He was just as agitated that night as he is now."

"Why?" asked Thorin.

"He was trying to warn me." She frowned distractedly.

That caught his interest. "Warn you? About what?"

Suddenly, Ridda flinched, squeezing her eyes shut and drawing her breath in sharply. She touched a finger to her brow and rubbed it. Then her eyes snapped open and her head turned like the needle of a compass, drawn by some intrinsic force toward the Wizards who stood a ways down the ravine in private conversation.

This unsettled Bilbo more than anything he had seen her do thus far. Her unshakeable calm had just been shaken. Something had just frightened the one who frightened him most of all, and he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to know what it was that had done it.

"Ridda." Thorin's voice was urgent now. Bilbo thought that might be the first time he had used her name. "Warn you about _what_?" She didn't appear to notice.

" _That is not from the world of the living_ ," she whispered, as if in a trance. Bilbo shuddered again.

"Ridd—"

"I have to go." She turned and the black Warg slunk to her side. "It is not safe for me to remain here. The Wizard was right. Something really is wrong."

"What do you _mean_?" Thorin's temper was rising fast, Bilbo could tell. She didn't answer him again, but instead started for the edge of the tree line. He caught her by the wrist and held it tight. Everyone fell utterly silent, and it seemed even the surrounding wildlife went still. "What secrets are you hiding from us?" It was hardly more than a whisper.

For a moment, she stood motionless, as if his touch were like sunlight on Troll's skin. Then she whipped around and brought her face so close to his that their noses were virtually touching.

"Many." It was practically a snarl. Bilbo was again struck by how small she really was, even for Dwarf-maid. "Some you have heard already. Others are too dark to tell, at least for now." She began to struggle free, but he held her fast and forced her eyes up again, searing into his.

"Why is it that every time I begin to trust you, you give me a reason not to?"

Her smile was certainly not genuine this time, but contemptuous and cold. "If you ever trusted me completely, Thorin Oakenshield, then you'd be the first to do so, and a fool for it." If it was at all possible, she leaned in even closer. "And what of _your_ secrets?" She really was on edge. Bilbo could see it in the tension of her stance, hear it in the unusual strain of her voice. "I believe I was right to question your scars. You dwell forever in the past. It defines everything you are, and you _let_ it." Behind her, Kumathâl whined again, this time in urgency, but she paid him no mind. "I keep secrets from you because I have to, but at least I don't keep them from myself." She wrenched herself free, pulled up her hood and kerchief, and began to run for the edge of the trees. Kumathâl fell in beside her and she swung herself effortlessly onto his back. In an instant, they were gone, beyond the trees and out into open territory.

Almost immediately, another howl rose up on the air, this one less like a song and more like the dinner call of a predator who had just found its prey.

"Is that a wolf?" Bilbo asked hopefully. "Are there—are there wolves out there?"

Beside him, Bofur lifted his miner's pick. "Wolves? No, that is not a wolf."

Bilbo's fears were confirmed as another Warg, this one dark brown in color, suddenly crashed through the foliage behind them. His blood ran colder than Ridda's touch.

 _We are being hunted_.

* * *

The stallion tossed his black head nervously. Uncharacteristically. Elrond frowned. He had been with this horse since he was a colt, shadowing his wobbly first steps and forming the inseparable bond that would end only with death. He knew him through and through, his shortcomings, his quirks, but as well as Elrond knew this horse, he did not know him to be excitable. In fact, this particular horse was anything but.

" _Farn_ ," he said gently. _Enough_. He ran his fingers soothingly through the thick midnight mane. " _Sîdh_." _Peace_. The horse whickered softly and exhaled through his nose. Elrond felt him relax beneath the saddle, feeling no more at ease himself.

" _Hîrnín_." _My Lord_. He turned to see his own worry reflected in the eyes of his Elves. The one who had spoken was watching the far horizon. "Orc-riders. They draw near to the western border."

He didn't need to be told. He could taste it on the air. A foul turn in the wind. An ancient dread had settled itself deep in his bones the moment he had left the Valley, a dread so old it shook loose memories he had kept hidden from his own thoughts for centuries, ones he would rather have remained dormant.

"Something has brought them here," said Elrond.

"Yes," said the Elf, squinting once more into the distance. "They follow a—a sled…pulled by—rabbits and—"

"Radagast." Elrond barely marked his own words. His thoughts were elsewhere. "They are in pursuit."

"Of the Wizard?"

"No," he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, "their real hunt lies in something else." A something else he had not felt for many hundreds of years. There were Orcs in all their fetid stench, but there was _something else_ , a much darker power afoot. A power that should have been far, far away from here. _I told him_ , he thought, _I told him to cast it into the fire_. _I told him to destroy it_. It was too late now. If he had to put an end to it himself, so be it. Such evil should never be permitted to seep back into this land.

" _Na nin_ ," he said to his Elves. _With me_. He urged his steed gently forward and the horse responded keenly, slipping into a gallop with such ease that would have rivaled the Mearas themselves. Is was easy enough to find them. His hunting party closed in quickly on the growing stink of Orc. As they drew near, Elrond began to worry at how close they were to the Hidden Pass. He gave the command for the archers to ready their bows. The Orcs must not be permitted to find the entrance. He suddenly discerned a disturbance in the air, a high-pitched ringing that was nearly above his ears' range. It was resilient and deliberate, the sound of metal drawn in a righteous stand against evil. A sound that few blades in this world made. One of the Elves blew his horn. The hunt had begun.

Elrond drew his own sword as they breasted a hill and the Orc-riders sank into view. There were other figures on foot, now disappearing one by one into the entrance to the Pass. He did not have time to worry about them, they would have to be dealt with in the Valley. He turned his full attention to the enemy as the first of his riders crashed into their unsuspecting ranks, felling Orcs and Wargs alike.

Elrond spotted one almost immediately that was different from the rest. It sat astride a Warg with fur as black as raven feathers and hid its face beneath a hood. What caught his eye the most was that it hung back from the rest of the pack, just watching the chaos unfold. It held in its hand a sword. Not an Orcish blade of rough-hewn metal and haphazard craft. He could see it even from a distance. This was a very sharp, very well-forged blade beyond the skill of these scum. The hooded figure suddenly spurred its mount forward in an alarming burst of speed. They took a sharp turn away from the melee and for a moment, Elrond thought they were fleeing. They fell in step with another Orc-rider who had a similar idea. The hooded rider swung the blade sideways, slicing clean through the Orc's neck. The body tumbled off its mount. Then, with acrobatic grace, the hooded rider planted its feet in the saddle and stood, balancing perfectly. The brown Warg didn't even seem to notice as the hooded rider leapt sideways onto it. It raised the sword again, this time sending its point straight down into the Warg's back. The creature hardly made a sound, just folded violently beneath the stranger's feet. Both tumbled and rolled to the ground and the black Warg halted its charge, circling back around for its rider, its ears swiveling restlessly. The figure rose to its feet unharmed, gripping the dark sword in its hand.

One of the Elves loosed an arrow toward it and it threw out a hand, palm to the sky, as if to welcome its oncoming doom. A shadow pulsed from its fingertips and met the shaft a few paces out. It fell to ash in midflight and the ring of shadow continued to race outward.

Elrond's stallion screamed and reared as the shadow engulfed them. The force of the darkness hit him full in the chest like nothing he had felt for a very long time. He stifled a groan as his blood turned to ice and his bones to lead, only dimly aware that the horse had taken matters into his own hands and started a whole-hearted retreat. He tangled his fingers in his steed's mane and managed to calm him down with a few whispered words of comfort. He coaxed the stallion back around and set him at a gallop after the stranger and its black Warg. The Orc-riders had scattered by this point, fleeing in all directions, followed closely by the Elves, but Elrond did not need to see the stranger to know where it was. He followed the force of its presence, a cold residue of the blow dealt to him a few moments before. He halted at the top of a hill, raised his bow, nocked an arrow, drew back, and loosed. His first shaft hit the black Warg in the shoulder. It stumbled, and the rider slid off, sending it running again with a word. Elrond understood why as two Orc-riders breasted the hill to the right, one breaking off and chasing the black Warg out of sight. It seemed that the Orcs had noticed a traitor in their ranks. The other Orc and its mount raced snarling towards the stranger. So very small it looked from this distance, and as Elrond watched the Warg swept its head low and collided at full speed with a force that should have broken the stranger's back. For a moment, Elrond thought that was exactly what had happened as the cloaked figure went soaring through the air and fell rolling into the yellow grass.

Elrond saw then that the Warg and its rider had also crashed to the ground. The Orc rose laboriously, but its mount remained in the grass, twitching violently. As Elrond drew ever closer, the Orc bent and grasped something that was stuck in the Warg's forehead, right where it had struck the stranger. Elrond recognized the dark glint of the sword he had seen in the stranger's hand. The Orc pulled and the creature convulsed one last time before going still. He pulled again, but still the object would not come free. He finally gave up and drew his own weapon, a long, dark sickle-like blade.

The sword suddenly tugged itself free of the Warg's skull and went flying through the air, directly into the stranger's outstretched hand, who then began to run, showing no sign of pain or injury from its bout with the Warg. Elrond's second arrow sailed straight towards the right side of its head. Without missing a step, it turned its face to the left so that the arrow caught the hood instead. The Orc raised his weapon and charged toward its quarry. The figure pulled up short, raising its sword. The third Elven shaft sliced between them, hitting the stranger's sword hand and sending the blade spinning once more through the air. The Orc launched itself across the remaining distance screeching in bloodlust and hit the disarmed figure square in the chest with his feet, pinning it to the ground. He thrust with his scythe, but the stranger threw up its hands and caught the Orc's arm in mid-stroke. Fascinated, Elrond ceased shooting and spurred his reluctant horse forward.

The figure displayed surreal strength for its size, but not enough to match the Orc indefinitely. The quivering edge of the scythe sank closer and closer to the rim of the hood and the shadow beneath. Then suddenly the Orc cried in rage and bore down in a final effort. The stranger, presumably waiting for this, twisted aside, sending the blade deep into the yellow tangle of grass and the hard-packed earth beneath. The figure twisted again, taking the Orc's feet from beneath him. Rolling into a standing position, the stranger flung out its hand in the direction which the sword had flown. It eyes remained on the Orc as he struggled desperately to free the scythe from the ground. It waited, but the blade did not come. It finally turned its head to find the sword still on the ground, pinned beneath the hoof of Elrond's horse. It cocked its head to one side. Elrond could feel the eyes burning into him from beneath the hood. So distracted was the stranger that it did not seem to notice as the Orc finally succeeded in pulling its scythe from the ground. As the stranger raised a hand toward Elrond, the Orc brought his blade singing around in a vicious upward arc that caught the stranger across the back.

Its head snapped up towards the sky as it fell to its knees without a sound. Its head then dropped to its chest as if it had fallen asleep. Then, it spun and threw its hand out toward the Orc, knocking it back ten paces with another pulse of shadow. The stranger rose slowly to its feet, and turned to stare at Elrond again. Held in the unseen gaze, he barely heard the sound of approaching footsteps until it was too late. The stranger was gone in a blur of black fur. Elrond blinked and then reached in his quiver again and fitted an arrow to the string, but the rider was already cresting the hill astride its black Warg. Pursuit he knew was pointless.

He felt his shoulders sag as he lowered the bow. The hunt had been a success. The border and the Hidden Pass were once again secure. The entire ordeal hadn't taken more than a few minutes, but Elrond felt drawn and tired, as if he had just faced a hundred years and a thousand foes, as if he had just returned from a war he would sooner forget.

He slid from his saddle and knelt on the ground. He stared at the dark blade, stained darker with Orc-blood. It glinted dangerously against the pale yellow of the grass, seemed to hum with its own life. Quite sure he would regret it, Elrond reached out a hand and laid it gingerly on the hilt, just below the fist-shaped pommel. An image flashed before his mind's eye, gone too quickly to discern. An image of fire and shadow and screaming flesh. Then, as he watched, the sword began to change, growing shorter and wider and rougher and much, much uglier. In but a few moments, the sword before him was that of any commonplace Orc, single-edged and dull to the touch with a leather-wrapped hilt and the fur of some kind of animal strapped to it like a trophy. The only thing that remained the same was the pommel.

What sorcery was this? Who in Middle-Earth was capable of this sort of power? Of imbuing metal with black magic? In all his confusion, Elrond could think of only one. He rose with sword in hand and swept his eyes along the eastern horizon, fighting down an ever-growing dread.

 _I told him to destroy it_. _I told him to cast it into the fire_. _Now we all will burn_.

* * *

 _ **Here's a little more action for you. Gives Ridda a chance to show you what she's really made of.**_

 _ **In case it didn't connect, the sound that Elrond hears of "metal drawn in a righteous stand against evil" is when Thorin draws Orcrist in the movie. I just loved that shot and the sound effects they used and every time I see it I just think there's some kind of connection there.**_

 _ **And you met my blind Warg! My word, what a day you're having! I promise you though that there are no more new characters from here on out.**_

 _ **Enjoy and review!**_


	13. Ill-Received

XI

Ill-Received

* * *

" _Ifridî bekâr!_ " _Ready weapons!_ "Close ranks!" Thorin clutched the axe tight in his hands, fighting his outrage. _Did I not say the Elves would spurn us_ , he thought as Bofur pulled Bilbo into the middle of their numbers. They closed around, weapons pointed outward like one massive spiked beast, warded against the oncoming thunder of hooves. The horses closed in fast, circling around the Dwarves like a tightening vice. When they finally stopped, the Company was driven so close together that none of them could have raised a weapon anyway.

"Gandalf," one of them said, spurring his mount towards the Wizard. Thorin's outrage doubled at this, and he wondered if Gandalf had not led them here for his own devices.

"Lord Elrond," he said, spreading his arms. " _Mellonen_. _Mo evínedh_?"

The Elf said something in response that Thorin didn't understand. As he spoke, he dismounted and unfastened something from his saddle. This Thorin understood. It was a token, proof of success taken from the field of battle. But there was something strangely familiar about it. He took an involuntary step forward. The Elf embraced Gandalf, then held the item up to the light of the setting sun.

"Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders," he said. Thorin felt himself stiffen. His arms went limp. He realized why it was so familiar.

"Something, or someone, has brought them near."

The blade was all wrong, but the closed fist on the pommel was unmistakable. And he wasn't the only one in the Company to recognize it. "Thorin," Fíli whispered close to his ear, "the pommel…that looks like her sword! That's Rid—" Thorin silenced him with a look and turned to see that the Elves hadn't heard, or at least pretended not to.

He turned his gaze back to the blade, mind racing faster than an arrow. _It is disguising itself_ , he thought. It was passing as commonplace, as a normal Orcish weapon. Thorin knew, though, that this Elrond would be too wise to be fooled. He had picked it up for a reason. The sword emitted a great power, one the Elves could surely feel, even if its master wasn't here.

Thorin's stomach dropped. _Its master_. Where was its master? If Reckoning was here, what had become of Ridda? His palms grew sweaty, but he wrapped them tighter around the axe handle. Why should he worry? Why should he care? She had promised loyalty, and yet twice she had fled from their ranks at the first whiff of trouble. Not once had she stood by their side.

He turned in time to see Elrond's eyes find him. Thorin stepped forward, still grasping the axe. The Elf addressed him with unwarranted familiarity, calling him "Son of Thráin". He was all too happy to throw back an edgy response. After a few more tense words, the Dwarves were welcomed grudgingly to the table of Lord Elrond. As they were led into Rivendell, Thorin glanced back to where the sword had been only to find it gone. _She won't go anywhere without it_ , he thought. And if this was true Thorin knew another thing for certain. She would undoubtedly come looking for it.

He said very little for the duration of supper, still lost in thought and angry at Gandalf for leading them here to be brought under such scrutiny. Elrond asked many questions, each one bringing Thorin closer to his nerves' end. The Wizard only added to the strain, insisting that the Lord of Rivendell have a look at the swords they had found on the road.

At present, Elrond held the one Thorin had claimed for his own. He pulled it halfway out of its sheath. It made the same high-pitched ring as when Thorin had first drawn it near the entrance to Rivendell.

"This is _Orcrist_ , the Goblin Cleaver. A famous blade forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin. May it serve you well." Surprised at Elrond's generosity, Thorin took the sword back with a nod. Elrond continued, examining Gandalf's sword. "And this is _Glamdring_ , the Foe-Hammer, sword of the King of Gondolin. These swords were made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age, and aided in the defense of their masters' great city, though it eventually fell. And now it seems they have found their way at last to another dwelling of the Elves, though not one nearly so resplendent as the one in which they were forged. How did you come by these?" And just like that, the tension was back. Thorin could feel it draw tight across his shoulders. He glanced at Gandalf, but it was too late.

"We found them in a Troll-hoard on the Great East Road, shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs." Elrond looked at Thorin and then back at Gandalf.

"And what were you doing on the Great East Road?" That was as much as Thorin could take.

"Excuse me." He pushed back his chair and strode as calmly as he could to the other side of the pavilion, desiring only to be away from inquiring eyes. He drank deeply from his cup as Bofur climbed up onto the table and began to sing. Coming to Rivendell was a mistake. He touched a hand distractedly to his chest. The map. In order to get the help they needed, they would have to show it to Elrond. By moonrise he would know the nature of their journey, and he would not be happy about it. Seeking gold and disturbing dragons were hardly things the Elf would deem as wise. Thorin felt his heart sinking as the Dwarves began to throw food about the pavilion. It was only a matter of time now, before all of Middle-Earth knew of the quest. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Elrond suddenly straighten in his chair.

"My Lord!" It was Lindir who spoke, his eyes unfocused.

"I know," said Elrond, turning.

The food-throwing stopped and Thorin turned in time to see a small hooded figure enter through the archway. He drew in a sharp breath. Every Elf that had previously been seated stood, recoiling from some invisible source of aversion. He lost himself for a moment, overwhelmed with a most unwelcome relief. He struggled to keep his features blank, maintaining a countenance of barely masked apathy. _She ran from us_ , he reminded himself. _She ran from our misfortune and now she crawls back when it is safe_. Even as the thought crossed his mind, her head turned towards him.

"Ridda!" Kíli shouted, as the Dwarves rose from their table. But she didn't seem to hear him at all. She strode straight up to Thorin. He began steeling his mind against her, but then she was upon him, and he forgot everything. The only thing he could feel was a strange warmth, humming through his blood. Her face was so close to his that he could feel her breath on his cheeks. It was quick and labored, like she had been running for a very long time. There was a cut on her face that hadn't been there before. Her eyes were glazed beneath the hood. The fire in them was veiled. He frowned, opening his mouth to ask if she was alright. Then he felt something cold on his wrist. His breath caught. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his hand and pulled it up between them.

"I did not run." There was something in her voice, a hidden channel flowing under the words. She passed her palm over his. It was slick and wet. "I am no coward." She released him and turned to the rest of the pavilion. Thorin looked down at his hand and found it smeared with bright red blood. Two guards suddenly burst through the archway and seized her, drawing back her hood. Elrond held up a hand. " _Daro_ ," he said. _Stop_. "Let her come." Thorin turned numbly and watched her go, marking an odd drag in the way she walked. It was pain he realized he had heard behind her voice, a river of hurt she was trying to hold back. She stopped in front of the Elf-lord.

" _Hîrnín_ ," she said with a stiff bow. _My Lord_. Her voice was low and burdened.

" _Pedig edhellen_?" he asked. _Do you speak Elvish?_ She nodded, and braced one hand against the table.

"My Lord," said one of the guards. " _Boe de nestad_." _She needs healing_. He pointed to Ridda's back, her bloody hand. Elrond frowned and bent over slightly. Everyone looked on in a tense silence.

" _Man i eneth lîn_?" _What is your name?_ She didn't respond at first. He asked again, then she slowly raised her head.

" _Im_ …" _I am…_ She paused, eyes searching. It seemed like something suddenly possessed her, took hold of her tongue. She raised her eyes to his.

" _Im_ _Askadel_."

A chill ran down Thorin's spine. She lowered her face into shadow.

"That is not your name," Elrond said immediately. He set a hand under her chin and gently lifted her face back up to the light, looking into her eyes again.

"Ridda." His touch seemed to calm her, his voice bringing her somewhat back to reality. He gave her a smile, but it quickly faded.

"You bring a great evil here." She nodded, his hand still under her chin.

" _Goheno nin_." _Forgive me_. There was apology in her voice. "I had no choice."

"Indeed." Elrond's eyes grew cold. He lifted his gaze to the guards and gave them an order in Elvish. Ridda understood. Her head fell as he released her. The guards took her again by the arms.

"What?" Fíli looked from the guards to Elrond in disbelief, then began to step around the table. "No! Where are they taking her?"

Thorin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He had marked a difference in the way the guards handled her as they led her away. They weren't restraining her, they were helping her, holding her up as they walked. She was no longer an intruder, she was a patient.

"They are taking her to be mended," said Gandalf. He swept his eyes over the Company until he found the one he was looking for. "Bilbo, my lad, would you kindly go and follow them? Make sure Ridda knows she is not alone." The Hobbit hesitated for a moment before following uncertainly through the archway. The Elves began clearing the tables. Thorin realized then his hand was still open. He closed it into a fist over the blood and crossed to the archway, lost in thought, hardly paying heed to where he was going.

* * *

Bilbo followed after the guards, trying to master his bewilderment. So much had transpired in the space of a few minutes, he hadn't had enough time to process all of it. Ridda was hurt, this he inferred from the Elvish words she had exchanged with Elrond. He had also inferred a tension between the Elves and the Dwarves. It was a mutual bitterness, grown and compounded over thousands of years, and poor Bilbo simply didn't know where he stood in all of it. He had felt small and insignificant and even burdensome throughout the entire ordeal with the Warg chase, all the way up until Gandalf had sent him after Ridda. He had been hunted by monsters, pushed down dark holes, squeezed through closed rocky passageways, shoved, ignored, snarled at, and ordered around, until all he could think of was a place, anyplace, he could lay down and rest. But now as if matters couldn't get any worse, one of their Company was badly injured.

Despite his worried, exhausted state, Bilbo couldn't help a growing sense of wonder at this place in which he found himself. Beauty permeated here, in a world where neither Orcs nor Wargs nor Trolls dared set foot. And indeed, he got the sense that Dwarves were hardly welcome here either. This was the realm of Elves, and it seemed only Elves belonged.

"Lay her here," he heard someone say from a room off the main hall. "Gently, please."

"I can sit." That was Ridda's voice, cool and oddly tight. There was a pause that lingered slightly longer than comfort would allow. Bilbo stopped outside the doorway.

"Very well," came the response finally, and then an order in Elvish. A moment later, the guards exited and strode off. Bilbo waited a moment longer before slipping into the room.

An Elf stood with his back to the doorway, grinding something in a mortar. Ridda sat slouched on a stone table, looking tired and so very small without her cloak. When she saw him she smiled, but it was distant and short-lived. The Elf suddenly spun around, pausing when he noticed Bilbo.

"Dwarves keeping company with Hobbits?" His voice was musing and aloof. "These are strange times, are they not?" Bilbo did not quite know what to say. He was perhaps the slightest bit offended.

"Sorry," he said, "who are you?" The Elf caught the huff in his voice and raised an eyebrow.

"I am Elladan, son of Elrond Half-Elf." He gestured to a chair across from the table.

"Ah," said Bilbo, "right." _Of course_ , he thought as he crossed to the chair. "And are you a great healer?"

The Elf regarded him for moment, then smiled before turning to his patient.

"Not a great one, not like my father." He studied the rip in the back of Ridda's tunic. "But adequate enough." He slipped a hand into his sleeve and pulled a small knife from within. Ridda tensed at the sound.

"Adequate enough to know it is a Morgul wound," said the Elf. He drew the knife point through the dark grey fabric of her tunic, opening it far enough so he could work.

"What does that mean?" Bilbo asked.

"It means a curse lies upon it," he said. The Hobbit swallowed hard, glancing at the gash.

"Curse? What sort of curse?" Uncovered, it looked ghastly, puckered and oozing. The skin around it was pale and webbed with black veins.

"It depends."

"Ah, depends on what?" The Elf didn't respond, just turned to retrieve his mortar and pestle.

"On the wounded." Bilbo almost jumped at Ridda's voice. When she looked at him, her sleepy eyes were filmed over. Their fire burned low. "Some suffer in perpetual, crippling agony. The lucky ones, find death quickly. And those unfortunate few are taken beyond recognition or caring and into the land between life and death. They become slaves to darker powers." Elladan crossed back to her and gently began to apply his poultice.

"Darker powers?" said Bilbo. "Like what?" Ridda did not answer. She shivered and closed her eyes and the herbs began to take immediate effect. Elladan began to murmur softly in Elvish. A muscle twitched at the corner of her jaw. She looked suddenly clammy, pale and oddly disquieted.

"Ridda?"

"Where is Reckoning?"

"What?"

"My sword, _mimakhun_. Where have they taken it?"

"I—I don't know."

"It is in my father's study," said Elladan, pausing in his chanting. "Do not fear. He will return it to you in good time."

She bowed her head, and promptly raised it again as footsteps sounded from the passage outside. Thorin walked slowly in front of the doorway. For a moment it looked like he would pass right by, but then he halted and turned to look at Ridda. Bilbo quite expected to hear a clap of thunder as their gazes locked together. They stared at each other for a moment, mesmerized. Thorin finally blinked and drew in a breath to say something, but then closed his mouth, turned, and continued walking. As he left, Bilbo caught sight of a dark red smudge on one palm. And when he turned back the Ridda, he could have sworn some color had returned to her face.

* * *

 _ **Whew! What a marathon this story it turning out to be!**_

 _ **You must understand, though, I haven't tried forcing my writing. I haven't rushed things, I've set no deadlines for myself. I've taken long holidays from this story, and yet I always find myself coming back to it. That must be good for something. It will take some time, but one day WILL finish it. I certainly have no intention of stopping until this story is realized, and I hope that brings you comfort!**_

 _ **Please review!**_


	14. Valley of Secrets

XII

Valley of Secrets

* * *

Bilbo didn't know why he always ended up in these sorts of situations. After all, he hadn't asked to attend this summit between Dwarves and Elves. The Company needed Lord Elrond's help, this he knew full well, but he had intended to be far away from its proceedings. He had hoped to explore the valley more, drink in some of the wonder it contained and perhaps discover some of its secrets. As night descended, he had been heading out to do just that. But then Thorin had found him. The Dwarf had grudgingly requested that Bilbo accompany him to their meeting with Elrond, saying something or other about a soothing presence and keeping a level head. As they walked, Thorin seemed distracted, restless.

Finally, he took a breath and cleared his throat. "I suppose you noticed, then." At first, Bilbo wasn't sure if he was meant to respond.

"N-noticed what?"

"Our interaction earlier today." The flush in his cheeks said the rest. He was speaking of Ridda.

"Ah, yes. I did." Somewhere inside, Bilbo feared Thorin would threaten him to keep quiet. He had hardly proved himself indispensable of late. But the tirade did not come.

"She spoke to me," he said instead.

Bilbo thought for a moment. "Nnnnoo, she didn't." If he was being honest, the entire affair had been completely silent and rather awkward, even for him. He stifled the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Thorin looked at him with something close to exasperation.

"In my head, Master Baggins, just as she's done before." The Hobbit nodded and glanced at his feet. "She told me she would be alright," Thorin continued, "that we should go on without her." Bilbo felt a jerk in his stomach. A journey without Ridda? They would all perish. He bit back an outraged Tookish reply and let reason take over.

"And what did you say to her?" They were entering Elrond's study now. It was empty. With the pale moonlight filtering in, it had gone cold and dark as well, but no less wondrous.

Thorin hesitated. "I told her it was the honorable thing to do." He looked at Bilbo. "Was I right to say that?" Master Baggins got the sense Thorin wasn't exactly speaking to him. He looked suddenly vulnerable, his features for the moment unguarded. "Should I have told her we would stay?" The Hobbit looked into those steely eyes. He saw something there not unlike torment, a dilemma, a terrible uncertainty that seemed so out of place.

Then Balin entered and Bilbo watched the walls go back up around Thorin's heart, his face once more the picture of confidence and kingly pride. A mask. The Elf-lord followed not long after with the Wizard at his side. Bilbo watched them argue over the map. Thorin grumbled, Gandalf chided, Balin fussed, but finally, the map was handed over to Elrond. He descried its secrets with such speed as to make Bilbo wonder why in Middle-Earth the Dwarves had fought so hard against seeking his aid. Thus far, he had been nothing but benevolent and truthful to them. Mr. Baggins supposed he would never understand these rifts of bitterness between the races. Such things were older than anyone remembered, and far beyond the comprehension of simple Hobbits.

" _Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks_ …" Elrond's words broke into his thoughts. Bilbo had followed them absentmindedly onto a cliff that jutted out from under the rest of Rivendell. The falls fed by the Bruinen River cascaded down in front of them like countless drops of silver. Through these droplets, the moonlight filtered, dancing on the crystal pedestal where Elrond had placed the map. Runes had appeared on that parchment, runes written in pure moonlight. It was these runes which Elrond read. They apparently held great significance for the Dwarves, who started talking frantically about the new year, and Durin's Day, and being in exactly the right spot at exactly the right time.

"So this is your purpose," said Elrond tightly, "to enter the Mountain." Thorin fixed him with an irate stare. It seemed the Elf-lord's usefulness had expired.

"What of it?"

"There are some who would not deem it wise." He offered the map to Thorin and the Dwarf snatched it away.

Gandalf frowned. "Who do you mean?"

"You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-Earth." He started back the way they had come, pausing when he reached the archway that led to Rivendell. "As for the Dwarf-maid," he said without turning, "she cannot remain here."

Thorin raised his head from the map, bewildered. "She is wounded," he said.

"She is dangerous." Elrond turned on the spot. "False-hearted." Everyone froze in place.

Gandalf approached him slowly. "Surely you do not mean this." His voice was low and pleading.

"You know very well, Mithrandir, I never say anything I do not know to be true." Despite the severity of his words, the Elf seemed to take no enjoyment in saying them. He turned to the Dwarf-prince. "Do not let good intention fool you, Thorin Oakenshield. I saw her fight outside of Rivendell. She means to protect you, but the power she possesses has roots darker and deeper than you know."

Thorin's voice dropped to a whisper. "What do you mean?"

The Elf-lord's eyes were cold, unyielding. "Why don't you ask her who she truly owes her loyalty to?" Without another word, he turned and swept through the stone archway. A mortified silence had fallen. When Bilbo looked at Thorin he was still frozen in his place. Something was growing in his eyes. The uncertainty was gone. There was disbelief, and rage, but Mr. Baggins thought he saw that torment there also.

"What's wrong?" Bilbo took a cautious step in his direction. "Thorin?" At the sound of his name, the Dwarf seemed to spring back to life. He gently lifted the map, as if it might fall apart at his touch. He folded it slowly and tucked it away in his clothes. He then turned, careful not to look at any of them, and took a step toward the archway. "Where are you going?" Bilbo didn't expect him answer. He watched Thorin's eyes grow suddenly wide, and then stony, and terribly numb. Without warning he strode off, past the Hobbit and the Wizard and Balin, back toward the Last Homely House and the traitor within.

* * *

The rest of the Company was in a boisterous mood. Fed and cleaned and far from danger, they had lit a fire and taken to sharing tales and songs. Currently, Glóin was lulling everyone to sleep with his recitation of the life and times of his great great grandam, the wife of Nain II, from whom almost all of them were descended. Eventually, and to everyone's great relief, Bofur took out his flute, forcing Glóin to cease his warbling. Bombur accompanied him, beating out a rhythm on his overturned stewpot. Within minutes, they were all on their feet, dancing and hooting about the fire. Their shadows leaped around like rambunctious spirits out for a night of mischief.

In all his spinning and stomping, Fíli caught a blur of white out of the corner of his eye. He halted, fighting against the whirling and wine that made his world reel and threatened to pull him to the ground. And he very nearly let it. She had arrived like a silent song that one hears in dreams. She seemed much more herself, though there was still a pallor beneath her skin. Her tunic and cloak and shoes were gone. She wore an Elf-child's gown, pale and sheer. It rendered her ethereal, so much so he feared she would disappear if he looked away for but a moment. Fíli puzzled at the way the sight of her made his heart pound. Without giving himself time to think, he stepped forward and bowed as deeply as he dared, making a genuine effort not to wobble.

"At your service," he said, relieved when his words did not slur. They came out confident and low, concealing the rationality that would normally have hindered his approach. When he glanced up at her, he knew she had seen right through him with those green eyes. All the same, he offered her his hand and she took it. Together they spun and twisted and whirled until they were both breathless. He remembered then he had been dizzy the last time he had seen her up close. This was certainly becoming an odd habit. He kept glimpsing Kíli across the way and knew his brother was observing them closely. After a while they slowed down, still short of breath. He watched her carefully for any signs of fatigue, ready to catch her if see stumbled or felt suddenly faint.

"You know, you are not a bad dancer," he said, hardly checking the impish grin that spread across his face, "especially for being as old as you are." He was immediately rewarded with an elbow to the midriff that made him double over. No, she was most definitely not fatigued. She sauntered away, feigning such a look of innocence that he would have laughed had he air in his lungs. From behind, Fíli could see the white bandages through the gossamer fabric of the gown, wound tightly about her torso. She glanced over her shoulder, catching him staring. He straightened gingerly and followed her to the outskirts of the dancing circle, just to the fire's edge. Half of her gown was bathed in golden firelight, the other half colored blue with the moon's pall. She leaned herself against a marble pillar, peaking around it at the Dwarves as if she was afraid they would see her. She didn't look at him when he approached.

"Is this what it feels like?"

"What?" His breath was back and yet his heart still pounded.

"Belonging?" Her eyes were filled with childlike wonder. They flew from one merry face to another, taking in the scene as if to memorize it.

"No." She finally looked at him. "This is what family feels like." Her smile was like daybreak after the harshest winter's night. Hardly daring to blink, he looked deep into her flickering eyes. Brilliant as emeralds with flecks of gold and fire like stolen sun.

A sudden sadness crept into those eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She closed them, still smiling, and lowered her head. Fíli instinctively put a hand on her shoulder. Her skin was like ice. "Ridda?"

When she looked at him again, the sorrow had only grown. "He is coming" was all she said.

Fíli frowned and leaned in closer. "What do you mean?" But she only lowered her head again.

"He knows."

Thorin suddenly burst into the midst of them. The flute fell from Bofur's lips. Bombur ceased to pound on his pot. Fíli took his hand from Ridda's shoulder upon seeing the tortured expression on his uncle's face.

Kíli seemed to sense the same thing. "Thorin?" But he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the Dwarf-maid.

"What have you been keeping from us?" All smiles were quickly fading.

"What are you on about?" said Nori. They were looking at Bilbo and Balin for explanation, but neither offered any.

"She is false!" He jabbed a finger in her direction, pacing all the while. "She has _lied_ to us."

"Lied?" Bofur looked from Thorin to the Dwarf-maid and back again. "Surely not! She has been only good to us!" Bifur grunted his agreement.

"It is the truth." Despite the rage blazing cold in his eyes, Thorin's voice remained low. "The Elf said she cannot stay here. Why is that? There is the Curse, but then there is something else, isn't there? It was not mere chance that you found us." Her gaze faltered for but an instant, but it was enough. Thorin stopped his pacing and took a step toward her.

Fíli could stand no more. He placed himself between them, barring his uncle's way. "Thorin—" But the Dwarf-prince shoved him aside like he was nothing, never once breaking his gaze. Kíli put a hand on his brother's arm, looking just as bewildered.

"Someone sent you," said Thorin slowly. Everyone was on their feet now. "Am I wrong, _Ridda_?" He spat the name at her, his voice hardly rising from a whisper. He drew in a ragged breath, his eyes unblinking. "Tell me now if I am mistaken." It sounded almost like a plea. Fíli's heart was still pounding as he turned back to her, but for a different reason entirely.

She didn't respond, just held the icy blue gaze in hers. Then she turned her eyes to the darkness, to the pale moon, the distant stars. Somewhere very far away, they heard a howl, lonely and sorrowful. Fíli guessed it could only be Kumathâl.

"You are not mistaken, Thorin Oakenshield," she said finally, turning back to him with a faint smile. She no longer seemed fearful or sad. Her eyes were clear. She was ready.

"It is time I shed some light on those dark secrets I told you about."

* * *

 ** _The secrets!_**

 ** _The intrigue!_**

 ** _I wonder what will happen next?_**

 ** _Please review! Hope to see you next time!_**


	15. Ridda's Song

XIII

Ridda's Song

* * *

It was like that first night in the Old Forest, when they sat around the fire, disturbingly still. Waiting. It felt so long ago to Kíli, though it couldn't have been more than a few days. _How quickly things change_ , he thought. _Ridda most of all_. She looked smaller now to Kíli, not so composed and intimidating. She had gone very pale since Thorin's arrival, so pale she was almost translucent. The old silver scars that traced battle into her skin seemed to take on a defiant and mocking luster. She looked tired now, and so frail, as if those scars were draining the life from her. Kíli knew, though, it wasn't old scars that did this. The Morgol wound was taking its toll. The only sign of strength was in her eyes. Though veiled, they still burned as they searched around the circle of faces. They stopped suddenly, finding Thorin, and closed.

"I never finished." The thought seemed to strike her as suddenly as she said it.

"What?" Fíli's eyes were wide, blue and childlike in his bewilderment at what had happened only a few minutes past. Kíli could feel pain and confusion rolling off of his brother in waves.

"The story from the first night that I met you all, I didn't tell you all of it." Her eyes opened, and again, just like the first night, the fire moved to her will, surging upward in a twisting column. Kíli marked the way it was not so well-contained as before. She was struggling to control it this time. Something was fighting her. "I'll ask you to listen first. Just hear what I have to tell you in full before making your judgement." She might as well have been speaking directly to Thorin. And indeed, her eyes rose slowly to his then. "Just listen."

He gave no sign that he had heard, nor that he was consenting to her wish, just stared evenly back at her with steely, disdainful eyes. His face was a cold mask. The fiery column flared out suddenly into branches licking hungrily at the overhanging tendrils of the trees above them. She abandoned Thorin's attention for the blaze, frowning slightly in concentration. After a moment of striving, it grudgingly dwindled, spitting sparks and spewing little yellow flames as it went. She stared at it for a few more moments, head cocked to the side, before turning her gaze to the stars.

"I have always puzzled at the ways we find in this wide world." Her voice was suddenly unburdened, light and musing, as if she were not preparing to expose everything she had known to them. "I've puzzled at how we always seem to end up precisely where we need to be. Like some vast and orchestrated song. It always changes, never the same. Each creature, from the highest Elf-lord to the foulest creature of the deep, each one has but a single distinct melody, one part to play. Some are harmonious and bring beauty. Others strike discord. All are important to the Song, to the grand story it tells." Her voice darkened, sinking into the velvety tones they all knew, and then somewhat deeper. "And it was by one singular and twisted song that I was led deep into the dying Greenwood, drawn to a darker place like a fly to a spider's web. Years I had run, from fire and Wargs and Elves, but now I found promise of refuge. I left this world and entered into the one beyond the veil. The land of the dead." A chill breeze stirred the sweet warm air. Everyone was deathly still.

"The one you spoke of, who came to Durin that day…" Kíli could not stop himself. He could almost hear the pieces clicking into place. "…he was not sent by the Great Mahal."

Her eyes slowly focused and she lifted her head slowly to look at him. Something in the way her neck bent to the side, the way the fire in her eyes had grown so cold. Kíli no longer knew this creature that regarded him. Ridda was no longer Ridda. "No," she answered finally, "he was not. It was no servant of Mahal that brought the heart of the mountain to life. He is not my master." Who was her master, then? The unspoken question seemed to scream out from fourteen pairs of eyes in the deafening silence.

"He called himself the Necromancer."

Ridda shivered even as she spoke the name. The voice that spoke it was hardly hers anymore, deep and cold like an underground cavern. "He is one of darkness and silence. He thrives in chaos and crafts from hatred. Always he seeps into this world, the one from which he was banished before time. He is the demon who haunts my steps, one whom I was born to serve." Her face went blank and her eyes stared at something none could see.

"He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

The Dwarves shot uneasy looks around the circle. Some glanced to their weapons.

"He welcomed me like a child coming home. He told me he knew my pain, said it was his own. Because he saw beauty in discord, value in what is different, he too had been banished by his own kin." Her eyes flashed for a moment to Thorin, then away. "So he had fashioned himself a weapon with a vast and terrible power, the likes of which can come only from its master's own life-force."

"He said there was a way. A way to control the thing inside me. A way to control the things around me." The fire moved under her silent direction, taking on the rocking form of a ship, proud and soaring. The word _Evrenos_ seared brightly on its hull as it sailed, shredding clouds and leaving naught but smoke in its wake. Only a moment it stayed, spiraling upwards, before petering out in another shower of sparks. When Kíli looked at her again, her eyes were squeezed shut in concentration. Her strength was failing. She was losing. "If I followed his instruction, he would give me a power and a dignity that had never been afforded to me." She spoke the words as if they were not her own. "If I was not permitted to belong, I would dominate. I would rule. That was his thinking.

"He knew from the beginning. He knew what Erebor would become, the glory to which its people would ascend. The deal he made with Durin was an investment. In time, his own heir would be born of the same blood. When the moment was ripe, he would send a messenger to free the one he had chosen, and the cursed child would claim the Mountain for its Master. Durin let evil play him for a fool, sowed a black seed in his own line, and we have all reaped the bitter harvest."

"Who was the messenger, then?" Thorin dared only whisper. Ridda's eyes were blazing when them met his, cold and fierce as a mountain blizzard. She was beyond hiding.

"Who came and drove you from your homeland? Who stole the Mountain and took the gold for his own?" A moment of silence and the fire burst into motion again, almost entirely untethered. First one flame erupted to the side, sweeping up to the sky, then another on the opposite side. The Dwarves scrambled backwards as the flickering beast in the center strove to break its chains. Somewhere in all the flashing and flaring, Kíli descried a serpentine form swooping on fiery wings and blowing gusts of hot air into their faces.

The final piece clicked.

"Smaug—was sent by the _Necromancer_."

He didn't need to yell over the turmoil. He knew she would hear. The dragon roared once more and then disappeared, shoved down laboriously into the embers. Silence fell once more. The Dwarves, slowly, untrustingly, lowered their hands from their faces. Ridda sat with her shoulders hunched, breathing slowly and deeply. Her jaw was clenched, her pale lips drawn back in a grimace. A shadow danced in her eyes. Something possessed her.

"Didn't you ever wonder how he found the Mountain? How he knew exactly where to go? It was no evil twist of fate. The dragon was the messenger and the message was for me."

The truth settled, silent and heavy.

"The Necromancer said he could show me how to make a weapon of my own. He said together we would cross the barrier into Middle-Earth and put a darkness upon it that would never be lifted. He said that together we would rule the lands both living and dead for all the ages to come."

Even the air seemed to stand still.

"But he forgot one thing." The grimace was gone, by the line of mouth was bitter, the jaw still twitching.

"I'm a Dwarf." A small flicker in those eyes. "We never, _never_ forget.

"The Necromancer underestimated this, my sense of kinship to the Dwarves of Erebor. Family is family after all, no matter what they do to you.

"But such things were not so clear to him. The choice to follow him was never mine to make. I was his, all along. Under pain of immeasurable torment, I wrought a weapon worthy of legend, but I did not give it my life-force as the Necromancer had done. I did not want to be so bound to it. So, I imbued it instead with the power of my Curse, and as long as I did not succumb to temptation, Reckoning could not control me. All that was left was to wait for a chance to escape.

"But it was in vain. Time goes slowly while hoping for something that might never come. There are many days in an hour, and many years in a day. My own life-force grew closer and closer to the Curse, and now I fear the two are irrevocably bound, and thus I to Reckoning. My link to the Necromancer had grown too strong. I fell into misery as more and more I began to realize, there _was_ no escape."

"And what happened then?" Bilbo asked it as an encouragement, as one trying to comfort a friend. Her eyes flashed when she looked at him, as if the sight of him gave the emerald fire strength. When she spoke, she spoke only to Bilbo.

"Then I saw a light, just a pinprick in a black cloak, a star in the night. 'There is good still in the world,' it said, 'but you must fight for it.' When I woke, I found myself no longer afraid. And I fled back to the land of the living and I followed the light."

Ridda smiled. The truth was out. Finally, _finally_ , she was free. Pale and trembling as she was, there was no fear in her as she turned to meet her fate where it rested in Thorin's eyes.

In all this, the Dwarf-prince's expression had not changed. He blinked once, lifted a hand, and raked it slowly across his face. Kíli thought he saw it shaking. "Tell me," he met her eyes at last, "how did you escape?" His voice was cool and pitiless. "How did you get out of that place?" Without waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off of her. "If all of this is true," he continued in louder tones, "how do we know the Necromancer didn't just set you free into places he cannot tread to wreak your own havoc in his name? How do we know all will not be as you said?"

She knew of what he spoke. "I have no interest in his plan, in domination. Regardless of what the Necromancer told me, two cannot rule a single land no matter how vast. There can only ever be one."

After a moment, he turned his back on her, pacing to the edge of the firelight. That was it, Kíli could feel it.

"I was right not to trust you before," Thorin murmured, back still turned. "But for the Wizard, you would never have come with us in the first place." He flung his arms wide. "And where is the Wizard? Step up and claim your prize!" He yelled it into the night. But the Wizard was nowhere to be seen. Thorin's arms dropped to his sides. "Just as well," he growled. "This quest is hardly his business anyway.

"As for you." He spun and faced her, half in fire, half in shadow. "You are no longer welcome in our Company."

 _You mean your company_ , Kíli wanted to say. After a long pause, the Dwarf-maid stood without argument and made to leave. It should have ended there. Many things were already laid bare this night, but with what happened next, Kíli got the sense that this was about much more than Ridda's secrets.

Thorin took a step toward her, shaking visibly now. His voice burned like hot iron.

"All these years I have blamed myself for that day, for the lives we lost." She stopped at his words, but did not turn. "Every night I have lain with guilt, and all this time _you_ were the reason for Erebor's fall, the cause of all our pain. And now you _dare_ to place the quest in jeopardy as well?" Every Dwarf was on his feet now. "You _betrayed_ us." It was only a whisper, but it rendered her momentarily rigid. Then, slowly, she turned.

It seemed to take centuries.

"What did you say to me?" The words were barely audible, the voice deep and dangerous. "How _dare_ you. My intentions are and always have been true. What of yours, _Bult-Murkh_? What have you told them of yours?" She flicked her eyes over the rest of the Company before piercing Thorin once more with her stare. "Or will you lead them unknowingly to their deaths just to sate your own desires?" He held her gaze, but he seemed to be burning from the inside out. "Durin's line has not changed," she said, starting to turn away again. "It still runs with fool's blood. How _dare_ you brand me traitor. You _hypocrite_ —"

"Enough!" The fire building inside broke free and it flared blue. Thorin broke his stare and took a step back, choking on air. After a moment, he lifted his head. "Get out of my sight," he whispered, still seething. When she didn't move, his eyes snapped back up to hers. "GET OUT!" He screamed it into her face, and it echoed through the valley. She didn't so much as blink. Victors do not flinch.

"You will _never_ be my King," she hissed, the shadow dancing in her eyes. It was the demon who spoke. It held the pain and longing captive. A strangled question burned in those tortured green eyes. _Will you not help me?_ it asked. As she turned, Kíli caught the black seepage of the Morgol wound bleeding through the back of her gown.

A moment and she had passed from their midst. The air was warm and sweet again, the fire a cheery crackle behind them. They stood frozen in time. Somewhere far away, Kumathâl howled his despair.

Fíli was the first to move, rounding on his uncle.

"Thorin she told us the _truth!_ " The older Dwarf didn't seem to hear. "She knew it was her fault, though it was not her choice. Don't you see?" Thorin began to turn away from the words.

"You blind _FOOL!_ " Fíli screamed suddenly, surprising even his brother. The fire now blazed in the nephew's gaze, where it had fled the uncle's. "Open your eyes."

He turned and made to go after her, but Balin put a hand on his shoulder. "Fear not, laddie. She will come 'round."

But she did not. In the days that followed, none saw her, nor heard from her. She simply disappeared, gone as quickly from their midst as she had come. The Dwarves were unmoved in their loyalty to their leader, barring the loss of respect he suffered from his nephews. But while the Company's mood seemed to gradually improve, Thorin's only worsened. The longer they stayed, the more restless he became. One morning, before the sun had touched the horizon, he woke them all with rough and hasty commands. It was time to move on. They would not wait for the Wizard. He had brought them enough misfortune.

* * *

As they ascended to the Hidden Pass, Bilbo glanced mournfully down at the valley, wishing he knew what to think.

"Master Baggins, I suggest you keep up." The Hobbit had to admit, if Thorin was broken inside, he did a good job hiding it. He turned to look at the Dwarf-prince. No, the pain was clear in his eyes, whether he knew it or not.

And as such, they passed from Rivendell and into the uncharted wilds of Middle-Earth. None of them was prepared for what was about to happen.

* * *

Somewhere not so far away, a band of Orc-riders tore through the dawn light, hot on a scent trail. The Pale one at the lead sneered from atop his white mount.

The hunt was far from over.

* * *

 ** _I knnnooooowwwww. So much talkinggggg. But seriously, I PROMISE, it's all about to pay off BIG TIME._**

 ** _I like this chapter, though, because it clarifies the difference between a mortal being like Ridda and an immortal one like the Necromancer (Sauron). His Curse, you could say, is his entire being, since he does not exist entirely as a material thing. Ridda, on the other hand, is a Dwarf first, and cursed second. I wanted to make that clear. She has two parts to her, a dual nature, while he only has one, wholly and entirely evil._**

 ** _Please review, and then steel yourselves for the next chapter (when I post it)._**


	16. The Debt

XIV

The Debt

They hadn't travelled far when they heard it, Thorin knew that for certain. The Misty Mountains were still robed in green, the grassy slopes not yet given way to the naked rocks and dark ridges of the eastern part of the range. No, they had hardly gotten anywhere at all when they heard it, and that's what disturbed Thorin most.

It was a distant howl, back from the way they had come, and it sent chills up his spine.

"Durin's beard," someone swore, "not this again." But sure enough it was. They had been followed all the way from the Troll-Shaws. Turning around, Thorin silently upbraided himself for being lulled into such a sense of security. They had never escaped. They had never been safe. As more howls rose alongside the first one, he belatedly wished they had waited for the Wizard. A moment later and it sounded like there were hundreds of wolves, their cries propagating off the mountain to the north.

Then they breasted the hill to the west, tracing the steps of the Company. Thorin watched them as they quickly began swallowing the distance it had taken an hour to travel on foot. There must have been at least twenty of them, their thundering footfalls sending shudders through the earth.

Thorin tore his gaze briefly from the oncoming threat and froze, his eyes catching something up on a distant ridge. It was just a white speck, still and bright against the mountain. It was not the pure white of a spotless conscience, but sickeningly pale, like a bleached and lifeless soul. His mind went blank as parchment.

"No."

"Thorin!" Someone yanked his arm, pulling him back into his body and sending him stumbling up the next rise. "We have to keep moving!" It was Fíli, his eyes wild, but his features calm.

"The Defiler," Thorin said numbly, following the feet in front of him.

"What? He's dead," said his nephew. " _Those_ Orcs are not."

He began to turn back to the ridge. "But I thought I saw—"

"Keep moving!" Any other time, Thorin would not have tolerated such contempt, but as it was he deserved it, and for that matter, needed it. "Let's get over the next hill and wait," Fíli threw over his shoulder. "They won't be expecting a fight. Maybe we'll stand a chance if we take them by surprise." Most of the Company had already disappeared to the other side, the Hobbit included. Thorin drew Orcrist as he crested the top.

Another distant howl reached their ears on the wind, this one from the south. Thorin's blood ran cold. A two-pronged attack? Since when did a disheveled Orc-pack exercise any amount of strategy?

"Wot's that over there?" Bofur pointed in the direction of the howl, where the green foot of the mountain leveled to plains.

When Thorin turned, he beheld a sight that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

At first it was only a hurtling dark speck on the horizon. In a matter of heartbeats, he was able to make it out. His heart sank.

A black Warg and its hooded rider, dark and silent as the night, flying over hill with such speed as only the wind could rival. Though he knew better, a cold hand of fear gripped Thorin's heart at the sight. This was a specter of wrath and ruin.

"Askadel." The word escaped his lips. It was a name of fear. It tasted metallic on his tongue.

Even as he said it, they drew even with the Company. The rider turned its shrouded head in their direction. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, the Warg hovering in mid-leap.

 _Fly, you fools_.

The thought echoed calm and stern through every head. And just as quickly, they were gone. Mean as a stygian arrow, they streaked toward the Orc-pack, which had adjusted its course upon sighting them. The hunt was forgotten.

The distance between the parties closed more quickly than any of them would have believed, the one hurtling towards the many, teeth and weapons bared.

Then she was upon them.

Thorin forgot how to breathe. Had they not been such vile creatures, he might have pitied them and the end they met there, torn by shadow and the black rage of an implacable curse. Reckoning was everywhere, severing, slashing, thrusting, such that none could touch her. A few moments passed and Thorin glanced up to see the white speck had disappeared from the cliff. A few Orc-riders straggled away from the chaos. Most were trapped again by the shadowy wall and scraped back to their deaths.

Somewhere in the frenzy, Thorin saw a white light like the one they had seen the first day in the Old Forest. It had saved Bilbo from the willow and now it was saving them all from the ones who would kill them and end the quest. But it was different from that black and impenetrable wall that rose from the ground. It was not born of Reckoning's bleak and lightless metal, its keen, merciless edge.

Gandalf's words suddenly resounded through his mind. " _Hers is a fury that no living thing can withstand_."

 _Not her fury_ , Thorin thought, _the Necromancer's_.

Even as he watched, he could almost see the chains that encircled her, binding her inexorably to the thing of her making. They were one, the blade and she. Yet the power she used was her own. That white light came from another place entirely. Each time it flared out more brilliantly and each time the shadow rose up and enveloped it like an obsidian fist. The longer he watched the more he began to realize she was not fighting against the Orc-riders so much as against something within, something she had only ever held off. But now she had declared war on it.

In all this, Thorin was dimly aware of the fact that none of the Company had yet stirred from their place, all riveted to the spectacle before them. Riveted to the little Dwarf-maid and her bitter, primordial crusade.

Those green eyes held an inferno. She had Death at her back.

They watched Kumathâl impaled by an Orc-spear. The blind Warg managed to stagger about for a minute, savaging any of his kin who dared stray too close to his rider. An outcast to the very end. When he fell and lay still, she made no sound, but the walls of shadow surged upward toward the sky, growing taller even than some of the younger peaks of the Misty Mountains. Those dark walls were like the battlements of some sinister fortress. They roared with power, with agony. Thorin heard some deep inhuman voice begin to chant, uttering black words that chilled the air. He saw no more vermin left standing, though the grass was black with their blood. But this most certainly was not about the Orcs anymore.

In the center stood a single small silhouette, defying the darkness with its existence. The white light beamed up through the center. The voice stopped its chanting and laughed such that the darkness pulsed. The shadow walls twisted ever higher and beat the light down. They strove thus, two ends of a different world, the meeting of their power sizzling through the air. As they watched, tiny holes began to form in those walls. They were only pinpricks at first, but they were slowly widening. The booming voice ceased its laughter. The shadows seemed to stand still. The tiny figure stood in the middle, sword held aloft. The metal burned white-hot, gleaming in vicious protest to the light. The holes burned wider and wider, eating away the darkness. The sword glowed brighter and brighter, until it was nearly blinding. Then the tiny figure took it in both hands and brought it straight down into the ground.

In that last moment Thorin realized too late that she did not intend to walk away from this alive. This was her final stand.

Then their world exploded. There was a sound like a mountain cleaving in two as the light rent through the remaining shadow. Waves of raw and unfettered magic rippled across the land, blowing all in the Company off their feet. The air was surprisingly cold and smelled of electric discharge, like standing too close to a lightning strike.

The chains were shattered. Somehow, Thorin knew, and when he stood again his thoughts were confirmed.

His heart shot up into his throat as he beheld the aftermath.

The bodies were all gone, vanished or disintegrated. There was nothing left. Only scorched earth, ashes, and barrels worth of black blood.

"Ridda." This word tasted different than the last one he'd uttered. It was bittersweet on his tongue, like the ache of a final good-bye, for she too was gone.

The rest of the Company had risen with him, silently taking in what they could not comprehend. Fíli was the first to move, just like that last night they saw her, rushing forward, her name on his lips. Thorin caught his nephew's arm to stay him. The Dwarf-lad hardly resisted. It seemed his strength had fled with Thorin's. He just stared numbly at the wreckage, at the last place he had seen her.

"She made her choice," Thorin said in low tones, such that only his nephew could hear. It took everything he had to hold his voice steady. Fíli turned and met cold blue steel. "She chose honor." This Thorin said louder, for the rest of the Company. After a long pause, a few of them nodded their solemn agreement. Thorin didn't believe a bit of it himself.

"What are you saying?" Fíli's gaze was still fixed on his uncle's. Blue on blue. One of fire and one of ice. With all his heart, Thorin wished he could feel the pain that burned in that blue fire, wished he could feel anything. "She just gave her life—"

"—for a reason." Thorin stared him down, abiding no contempt this time. "Or would you have it be in vain? The quest will continue because she chose to—" His heart wrenched suddenly. Unexpectedly. The numbness wore off. The pain he had envied of his nephew rushed in and squeezed his lungs. His throat closed around his words. Hardly daring to breathe, he glanced around at all the lost faces. They were still standing now because of her. Whatever happened from here on out would all be because of what she had done this day. They owed her everything.

They were all debtors now.

They could not risk a second ambush. There was no telling where that white speck on the cliff had gone.

Thorin swallowed hard, knowing they needed strength of all things right now. Not a tear he had shed since Moria. Not a tear would fall today. Not for her.

"We go on." He felt a mask slip over his features, hard and unfeeling. "Anything else would be an insult to—her."

"For Ridda," came a small voice in the back. It was the Hobbit. As they turned to look at him, he lifted his eyes to Thorin's. He saw right through that mask, and Thorin hated him for it.

"For Ridda," swore twelve hushed voices.

Thorin's was not among them. He remained silent as he lifted his eyes to the horizon, to the place where home lay far away. He couldn't allow himself the time to think or process. If he did, there was no telling what new hell he would fall into.

She was just another corpse, just another bloodied gold coin in the mounds and mounds that towered up to the churning red clouds of his nightmares. Clouds drunk with the souls of thousands. Now she was just a scar, counted among all the others he carried. Oh, and how deep they were.

His insides were on fire now. Guilt and fury. Agony. They all burned the same. They all burned icy cold.

No. It was best not to think for now.

He turned to the east and began to walk.

* * *

 ** _One of the best pieces of advice I've heard from writers of all kinds is to cut without mercy, to "kill your darlings." When one dares to write, one becomes supreme ruler and architect of the story. Authors are gods in the worlds they create. They hold the power to govern the fate of their characters. And the characters themselves hold power too, these beings of ink and paper, given life through words. They hold power in their transience, in the things they reveal to the reader, the things in the reader they reflect. And authors can unlock this power, but sometimes that means killing their darlings._**

 ** _And I think that is what I have been trying to do, but at what cost?_**


	17. Rocks and Thunder

XV

Rocks and Thunder

* * *

"No, no fires." Glóin ceased rubbing his hands together and turned to glare up at Thorin. "Not in this place." The Dwarf-prince's sodden hair was like a black curtain draped across his face. "Get some sleep. We start at first light."

"We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us," Balin cut in, white hair frayed out from his head. "That was the plan."

"Plans change." It was hardly a reasonable answer. The older Dwarf stared at Thorin incredulously as he called Bofur's name and assigned him first watch.

Behind them, the rest of the Company trickled haltingly into the dark cave. Half of them were lucky to be alive, the other half lucky to have found that first half after their separation on the mountainside. All of them were dripping and panting and exhausted. The whites of their eyes flashed in the gloom as they glanced wildly about.

Outside, the stone giants still waged their thunder battle, the flashing and crashing a constant reminder. But it was not just the peril that dogged their steps now. It was memories also, fresh and painful and unshakable. Of all in that cave, Bilbo Baggins felt this most of all. Never in all of his days would he have chosen to go on such a quest had he known the opposition they would meet along the way. It seemed like every step closer they took to the Lonely Mountain, the harder all of Middle-Earth rose up and strove against them. What was more, they had left behind the only two members of the Company that perhaps understood him. One was back in Rivendell, and who knew when he would find them again?

The other—Bilbo threw his bag down onto the stone floor and dropped down himself. The other he didn't care to think about. He had seen the change in Thorin as soon as it had happened, both in his manner and the way he looked at him. The Hobbit was supposed to be their burglar, but since the second Orc attack, he was naught but a burden once more. There was nothing now to distract Thorin from his incompetency. He was a lost and ill-adapted nuisance. The Dwarf-prince had said as much not two minutes past, after saving Mr. Baggins from falling to a rocky death off the side of the mountain.

Bilbo leaned back against the side of the cave, letting the tension go from his neck. With his head rested thus, he stared up the curving wall, taking in the damp and vaulted ceiling. He wondered idly if those cracks and crevices had ever seen the light of day. He wondered how long it had taken for this little rock shelter to come into existence. He wondered whether it was a centuries-long process of steady winds and beating rain, or if it was more the work of an instant, a single blow dealt by a massive stony fist. Bilbo shuddered at the thought of those giants outside. He thought of the Trolls and the wolves and the Orcs. Longer still he thought on all the danger they had yet to encounter, things surely much worse than what they had left behind. Such a wide, wide world. Such a small Hobbit. _Maybe Thorin is right_ , he thought as his head fell limply to his chest. _I have no place here. I should never have come._

"Of _course_ he would like it." A voice wafted into his half-consciousness such that he was unsure whether he was dreaming it or not. "He's a good fellow, Bilbo is."

At the sound of his name, the Hobbit gathered the strength to pick his head up again. Across the way, Dori sat next to Ori on their bedrolls, holding up a piece of parchment in the cold, dim light. They both glanced over when Bilbo lifted his head. Ori snatched the parchment from Dori's hand and tucked it away in the tattered journal he carried, shaking his head shyly. The older Dwarf continued looking at Bilbo, smiling.

Exhaustion momentarily forgotten, the Hobbit rose to his aching feet. He didn't need to look. Thorin's eyes were burning holes in the back of his head as they followed him across the cave. Ori hardly dared to look up as Bilbo approached. A flush crept red across his face, but underneath that embarrassment, his skin was pallid. He shivered, and from more than just the damp and the chill, Bilbo knew. He was shaken to his core. He was scared nearly witless, and yet he continued. Somehow this discovery gave Bilbo comfort. He was not the only gentle soul on this journey.

He glanced down at the journal, still open on the Dwarf's lap. He saw an ink drawing of graceful archways and dancing trees and elegant stonemasonry.

"Is that Rivendell?" Ori nodded. Bilbo's heart twisted for he so missed the place already. _Perhaps that is where I should have stayed. Perhaps I should go back there_. "It's very good," he said instead. Ori's blush only deepened.

"Thank you, sir."

"There's no need for that. You may call me Bilbo."

He nodded and lowered his eyes to the gloved hands in his lap.

"Oh, come now, Ori," said Dori after a brief pause. He shook his braided head and pursed his lips like a displeased mother. "Show it to him."

Bilbo was about to assure him it was alright when the younger Dwarf lifted his head. Those lost brown eyes finally found the Hobbit's face and regarded him with surprising intensity. Bilbo was suddenly aware of the others, moving soundlessly about in the dark and the cold, slipping from shadow to angular shadow. This was where they were comfortable. Here in the bones of mountains was where they began. They were people of stone and iron and fire. And as Bilbo gazed in to those gentle brown eyes, he realized even the most faint-hearted of Dwarves had a fierce and burning soul within him. After a moment, Ori dropped his gaze and began to rifle through the pages of his journal.

"Here's one of you, Master Bilbo." He ducked his head as he held the piece of parchment out.

Bilbo Baggins took it and stared down at it. And Bilbo Baggins stared back up at him. Masterfully rendered, the portrait captured every unruly lock of hair, every furrow between brow and on forehead, even the slight crookedness of the nose from when he had broken it in a nasty fall as a child. It was all there. Every memory of himself etched in that face, and yet the real Bilbo saw something there he no longer possessed. Those eyes were young and ignorant, untouched by the world. My, how many years he had aged in a matter of weeks. What must his eyes hold now?

"I drew that on the first night we arrived at your Hobbit hole," he heard Ori say as if from a distance. "I thought you might like to remember the sort of person you were before—well, before everything. You may keep it if you wish."

After a pause, Bilbo processed what Ori had said to him. With a sharp breath, he glanced up. "I will do. Thank you very much." Then he held it back out to the Dwarf. "But it's best if you keep it safe in there for now." He smiled as best he could despite—well, despite everything. "Can't have such a fine piece of work getting ripped and creased in my pocket, now can we?" Ori nodded bashfully as he took it, a new sort of rapport sparkling in his eyes.

A vicious wind suddenly gusted in from the mouth of the cave, carrying a raw chill and the echo of thunder with it. It whipped at the pages of Ori's journal, as if perusing the log of their journey thus far. Another ink drawing caught Bilbo's eye and when he glanced down, he couldn't help his jaw from dropping at what he saw.

The mere sight of her sent a dagger into his stomach.

The face was smooth and hard, like wind-sculpted rock. The hair that framed it was dark and long. The braid wound around the back of the neck and fell down over one shoulder. The brow was arched scornfully, the mouth permanently quirked at the corners, as if poised on the edge of a secretive, taunting smile. It was so rare an expression for those features.

And those eyes. The dagger twisted in his stomach. Oh, those eyes. They were calm and old like he remembered. They held agony and wisdom and something like hope, and though they were etched in black ink, Bilbo thought they blazed green. They pulled him in, whispered kind words to him.

 _There is nothing to fear,_ mimakhun _. It does not matter the size of a person, but the greatness in his heart and the strength of his courage._

He became dimly aware that all movement in the cave had ceased. Everyone had seen the drawing.

"It didn't seem right for her to be smiling," Ori explained, "but I didn't want her to look sad either."

"It's perfect," Bilbo whispered.

"You may keep that one also."

"No." Bilbo shook his head slowly, then tore his gaze from the page to look at the young Dwarf. "She belongs to all of us."

He glanced about at all the pale, tired faces. At all the fierce and burning souls. His eyes fell on Thorin last. His back was turned to all of them where he leaned up against the stone. His head was bowed low. He could have been sleeping, but Bilbo knew he wasn't. He knew the Dwarf-prince was the weakest of them all in that moment. He couldn't bring himself to look at the drawing. The Hobbit frowned, feeling a strange sensation rise up within him at the sight. It was pity.

One by one, the rest of the Dwarves began to carry on with settling down. No one said a word. Bilbo gave Ori one last smile before returning back to his pack and spreading his bedroll. He thought again back to the drawing of Rivendell, of the peaceful golden valley. Perhaps Thorin was right. Perhaps it would be safer for everyone if he were not to continue on the quest. As he lay down, he dared not close his eyes for too long. He listened for the snores to start, knowing he would not be staying here until first light. His decision was made.

Little did the Hobbit know, he wouldn't make it farther than the threshold. None of them would.

* * *

 ** _It was so graciously brought to my attention by a guest that I misspelled a word in the summary. The SUMMARY of all things! That won't draw in the views now will it? Thanks to you, dear guest, if you are still reading. It's been ages since I looked at it, and sometimes it takes another set of eyes to find mistakes. If anyone else finds misspellings or the like, please be so kind as to point them out!_**

 ** _This is just my short little filler chapter, just a breather from that last one, so I was able to churn it out pretty quickly._**


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